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EARLY  MEMORIES 


EARLY  MEMORIES 


BY 

HENRY  CABOT  LODGE 


'Quo  desiderio  veteres  renovamus  amores 
Atque  olim  missas  flemus  amicitias." 
—Catullus,  Carm.  XCVL 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1913 


LI 

A3 
1113 


Co 

MY  CHILDREN  AND  GRANDCHILDREN 

I    DEDICATE 

THESE   MEMORIES 

OF    MY    CHILDHOOD    AND    YOUTH 


PREFACE 

To  begin  a  book  with  an  apology  is  never  desirable.  Where, 
however,  one  writes  about  one's  self  or  ventures  to  record  one's 
personal  recollections,  some  slight  explanation  seems  almost  neces- 
sary. Yet  for  what  is  contained  in  these  pages  I  can  give  no 
better  warrant  or  excuse  than  a  passage  from  a  very  great  writer 
who,  it  is  to  be  feared,  is  not  so  much  read  now  as  he  ought  to 
be,  or  as  he  once  was: 

"  The  life  of  every  man,"  says  our  friend  Herr  Sauerteig,  "the 
life  even  of  the  meanest  man,  it  were  good  to  remember,  is  a 
Poem;  perfect  in  all  manner  of  Aristotelean  requisites;  with  be- 
ginning, middle  and  end;  with  perplexities  and  solutions;  with 
its  willstrength  (Willenkraft)  and  warfare  against  Fate,  its  elegy 
and  battle-singing,  courage  marred  by  crime,  everywhere  the  two 
tragic  elements  of  Pity  and  Fear;  above  all,  with  supernatural 
machinery  enough,  for  was  not  the  man  born  out  of  Nonentity; 
did  he  not  die  and  miraculously  vanishing  return  thither?" 

Nothing  really  is  easier  than  to  find  words  of  excellent  appear- 
ance to  explain  the  compelling  motives  for  writing  one's  memoirs 
or  reminiscences  or  autobiography.  Whatever  we  may  say,  how- 
ever, whatever  ingenious  phrases  we  may  employ,  the  main  pur- 
pose is  to  write  about  one's  self,  and  the  efficient  reasons  may  all 
be  summed  up  in  the  simple  sentence:  "I  do  it  because  it  gives 
me  pleasure."  In  fact,  to  the  well-regulated  mind  there  is  no 
pleasure  equal  to  that  of  talking  about  one's  self,  and  one's  satis- 
faction is  not  diminished  by  the  inexorable  necessity  of  seeming 
to  talk  about  other  people.  My  preface  is  already  too  long,  even 
by  these  few  words,  and  I  will  therefore  end  it  here,  trusting 
blindly  for  what  is  to  follow  in  the  assertion  of  Leslie  Stephen, 
that  "no  autobiography  is  dull." 


CONTENTS 


PAQB 

PREFACE    .     .     . vii 

CHAPTER 

I.    HEREDITY       .    ..•• 3 

II.    EARLIEST  MEMORIES:  1850-1860 14 

III.  THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860 39 

IV.  BOYHOOD:  1860-1867 59 

V.    BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867     ...  81 

VI.    THE  WAR:  1860-1865 112 

VII.    EUROPE:  1866-1867  . 135 

VIII.    HARVARD:  1867-1871 180 

IX.    RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST 200 

X.    EUROPE  AGAIN:  1871-1872 225 

XI.    STARTING  IN  LIFE:  1873-1880 244 

XII.    PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS       ....  276 

INDEX                       .  353 


EARLY  MEMORIES 


CHAPTER   I 
HEREDITY 

EVERY  one  in  giving  an  account  of  himself  would  like, 
I  think,  to  begin  with  the  words  of  the  Due  de  Choiseul  at 
the  opening  of  his  memoirs:  "  Je  ne  vous  parlerai  pas,  Mon- 
sieur, de  ma  naissance.  L'on  m'a  toujours  dit  que  j'etais 
gentilhomme  aussi  ancien  que  qui  que  ce  soit.  J' ignore 
absolument  ma  genealogie  qui  est,  comme  celle  de  tout  le 
monde,  dans  les  livres  qui  traitent  cette  matiere."  We  may 
still  say,  with  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar  who  lived  many 
years  before  the  Due  de  Choiseul:  " Honestissimum  enim 
est  majorum  vestigia  sequi,  si  modo  recto  itinere  prseces- 
serint,"  1  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  times  and  manners 
have  greatly  changed  since  the  minister  of  Louis  XV  wrote, 
with  a  fine  disdain,  in  this  fashion.  The  little  world  where 
"everybpdy"  could  find  his  genealogy  in  "the  books"  has 
departed.  The  waves  of  democracy  have  submerged  the 
old  and  narrow  lines  within  which  the  few  sat  apart,  and 
definition  of  a  man's  birth  and  ancestry  has  become  more 
necessary.  Moreover,  Darwin  and  Galton  have  lived  and 
written,  Mendel  has  been  discovered  and  revived,  and  the 
modern  biologists  have  supervened,  so  that  a  man's  origin 
has  become  a  recognized  part  of  his  biographer's  task. 
Therefore,  he  who  writes  of  himself  must  follow  the  practice 
of  those  who  write  the  lives  of  people  other  than  themselves. 

My  father  was  John  Ellerton  Lodge,  a  merchant  of  Bos- 

lib.  V.  Epist.  VIII,  Kukula  ed.,  Leipzig. 
3 


4  EARLY  MEMORIES 

ton,  an  owner  of  ships  engaged  in  commerce  with  China. 
He  was  the  son  of  Giles  Lodge,  who  was  born  in  London  in 
1770,  the  son  of  Matthew  Lodge,  a  merchant,  and  Eliza- 
beth Ellerton.  The  Ellertons  were  an  old  family  in  the 
north  of  England,  where  a  priory  on  the  Swale  and  an 
abbey  on  the  Derwent  commemorate  the  antiquity  of  the 
race  and  their  devotion  to  the  church,  both  foundations 
bearing  the  Ellerton  name.  The  abbey  was  still  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  family  in  1866.  At  that  time  a  cousin  of  my 
father  had  changed  his  name  to  John  Lodge  Ellerton  in 
order  to  inherit  the  property,  which,  I  think,  was  of  slight 
pecuniary  value,  and,  as  he  had  no  children,  he  asked  my 
mother  to  let  me  take  the  name  of  Ellerton  and  remain 
in  England,  a  proposition  wisely  declined  without  previ- 
ous consultation  of  the  person  most  concerned,  although  I 
should  have  cheerfully  ratified  the  decision. 

According  to  Burke's  "Royal  Descents,"  Matthew 
Lodge  was  descended  from  Francis  Lodge,  archdeacon  of 
Killaloe  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century.  I 
find  in  Dwyer's  "History  of  the  Diocese"  that  the  name  of 
the  archdeacon  was  Thomas  Lodge,  that  he  was  archdeacon 
from  1624  to  1638,  and  that  he  was  a  graduate  of  Oxford. 
There  are  four  of  the  name  in  the  Oxford  lists  of  about 
that  period,  and  it  was  not  possible,  with  such  research  as 
I  could  give,  to  identify  the  archdeacon.  I  should  have 
liked  to  connect  him  with  Thomas  Lodge  the  poet,  but  be- 
yond the  fact  that  the  arms  of  my  ancestors  are  identical 
with  those  of  the  poet's  father,  a  rich  grocer  and  Lord 
Mayor  of  London  in  1563,  I  could  discover  no  evidence 
of  relationship.  My  grandfather,  Giles  Lodge,  who,  as  I 
have  said,  was  born  in  London  in  1770,  was  in  the  West 
Indies  in  1791  on  business  for  his  brothers,  who  were  mer- 
chants in  London  and  Liverpool.  He  was  caught  at  Santo 
Domingo  in  the  rising  of  the  blacks  which  occurred  in 


HEREDITY  5 

August  of  that  year.  Presence  of  mind  and  the  fact  that 
he  spoke  French  fluently  enabled  him  to  escape  the  mas- 
sacre and  take  refuge  on  an  American  schooner  which 
brought  him  to  Boston.  Coming  to  Massachusetts  by  the 
merest  accident,  he  found  a  good  business  opening  in  Bos- 
ton, settled  there,  became  a  merchant  and  the  correspond- 
ent of  his  brothers,  and  never  returned  to  England;  in  fact, 
he  never  left  America  again.  In  1800  he  married  Mary 
Langdon,  the  daughter  of  John  Langdon,  who  had  been  a 
stationer,  then  a  captain  in  the  Continental  army  during 
the  Revolution,  and  who  finally  held  a  place  in  the  custom- 
house, to  which  he  was  appointed  by  Washington.  John 
Langdon's  cousin,  Samuel  Langdon,  was  the  president  of 
Harvard  College  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  and  prayed 
for  the  troops  drawn  up  on  Cambridge  Common  on  the 
evening  of  June  16,  just  before  they  set  out  for  Bunker 
Hill.  The  Langdons  were  descended  from  John  and  Philip 
Langdon,  who  came  to  New  England  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  sailors  and  ship-captains,  and  such  their  descend- 
ants continued  to  be  for  a  hundred  years.  John  Langdon's 
wife,  the  mother  of  Mrs.  Giles  Lodge,  was  Mary  Walley, 
the  daughter  of  Thomas  Walley,  a  prosperous  merchant  of 
Boston,  grandson  on  the  mother's  side  of  Thomas  Brattle, 
one  of  a  family  eminent  in  Colonial  times,  and  on  the 
father's  side  grandson  of  John  Walley,  lieutenant-general  of 
the  Canadian  expedition  in  1690,  and  later  a  judge  of  the 
Supreme  Court. 

My  grandfather,  Giles  Lodge,  died  in  1852  in  the  eighty- 
third  year  of  his  age.  I  have  been  told  that  he  knew  me, 
and  was  pleased  to  like  me,  but  of  him  personally  I  have, 
of  course,  no  recollection  whatever.  His  portrait  shows 
that  he  was  fair,  and  the  face  which  looks  out  from  the 
picture  is  handsome,  gentle,  and  refined.  The  family  tra- 
dition represents  him  as  a  gentleman  of  somewhat  deter- 


6  EARLY  MEMORIES 

mined  character,  "whose  word  was  law,"  and  whose  laws 
were  promulgated  in  the  most  concise  form  and  were  sub- 
ject to  no  debate.  My  mother  always  spoke  of  him  with 
great  affection,  and  said  that  he  was  invariably  most  kind 
to  her.  Apart  from  his  picture,  the  family  tradition,  and 
some  business  letters,  I  have  nothing  which  throws  any  light 
upon  him  or  his  character  except  his  cane  and  a  few  books, 
my  father's  small  portion,  I  suppose,  of  the  library,  which 
was  divided  among  many  children.  A  cane  would  not 
seem  to  be  a  very  illuminating  witness,  and  yet  this  particu- 
lar stick  has  seemed  to  me  full  of  meaning.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  use  it;  it  is  not  long  enough  for  me — thus 
showing  that  its  owner  was  a  short  man.  It  is  a  blackthorn, 
with  a  long  steel  ferrule,  and  a  large  irregular  piece  of  ivory 
fitted  tightly  down  on  the  top.  It  is  very  thick,  very  for- 
midable as  a  weapon,  very  determined  in  appearance.  Al- 
together, it  is  a  stick  with  a  great  deal  of  sturdy  character, 
like  its  possessor.  It  is  a  cane  which  might  have  supported 
the  tottering  footsteps  of  any  man,  and  yet  it  distinctly  sug- 
gests, as  one  grasps  it,  that  its  owner  never  either  wavered 
or  tottered  in  his  walk. 

The  books  with  my  grandfather's  name  written  on  the 
fly-leaves,  in  his  neat,  precise  hand,  tell  another  story  and 
seem  to  show  another  side.  Most  of  them  are,  as  one 
might  expect,  eighteenth-century  classics:  "The  Spectator/7 
"The  Tatler,"  "Hume's  Essays/'  and  the  like.  Neat  little 
volumes,  good  editions,  in  excellent  contemporary  binding, 
they,  too,  seem  characteristic  of  their  possessor.  Then 
there  are  Pope's  translations  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  also 
in  the  "reliure  de  1'epoque,"  which  is  much  worn  by  use 
rather  than  by  time.  But  the  surprising  book  is  a  very 
pretty  and  complete  edition  of  Spenser,  evidently  much 
read  in  its  day  and  generation.  I  have  often  wondered 
what  the  element  was  in  my  grandfather's  temperament 


HEREDITY  7 

which  drew  him  to  the  great  Elizabethan  and  made  him 
love  and  read  the  "poets'  poet,"  so  alien  to  the  taste  of  the 
eighteenth  century  and  to  the  pursuits  of  a  hard-working 
merchant  and  man  of  business. 

My  father's  mother  I  never  even  saw.  She  died  before 
I  was  born,  and,  except  for  the  fact  that  my  mother  was 
fond  of  her,  I  know  nothing  about  her.  There  is  a  hard 
portrait  of  her  in  the  possession  of  the  family,  painted  by 
Rembrandt  Peale.  The  features  are  clear  and  well-cut, 
but  my  poor  grandmother  is  so  disfigured  by  the  turban 
she  has  on  that  it  is  difficult  to  tell  whether  she  was  good- 
looking  or  not.  It  was  a  hideous  fashion,  that  of  the  turban, 
so  prevalent  in  those  early  nineteenth-century  days,  and 
when  I  read  of  the  game  of  whist  in  which  Mr.  Pickwick  en- 
gaged at  Bath  I  used  to  wonder,  most  irreverently,  if  the 
Dowager  Lady  Snuphanuph  looked  like  my  grandmother's 
portrait.  Now  the  wheel  of  fashion  has  revolved,  and  I 
see  indications  of  the  renascence  of  the  turbans  of  our 
grandmothers. 

My  mother  was  Anna  Cabot,  the  daughter  of  Henry 
Cabot  and  Anna  Blake,  the  daughter  of  John  Welland 
Blake,  descended  from  William  Blake,  who  was  a  cousin 
of  Robert  Blake,  the  great  admiral  of  the  Commonwealth. 
William  Blake  came  to  Massachusetts  in  1630,  was  for  forty 
years  town  clerk  of  Dorchester,  and  left  many  descend- 
ants. My  grandmother  Cabot  died  before  I  was  born, 
but  she  was  one  of  the  women  who  make  such  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  those  about  them  that  I  have  always  felt 
as  if  I  had  known  her.  Not  only  in  the  family,  but  from 
all  my  grandfather's  old  friends,  I  used  to  hear  continually, 
until  the  last  one  who  remembered  her  had  passed  from 
the  stage,  of  her  beauty  and  grace,  her  abiding  charm  and 
fascinating  qualities.  Venerable  gentlemen,  when  I  had 
grown  up,  used  to  tell  me  of  her  many  attractions  with  such 


8  EARLY  MEMORIES 

emphasis  and  insistence  that  I  frequently  had  an  uneasy 
feeling  at  the  back  of  my  mind  that  they  were  thinking  how 
unlike  she  was  to  some  of  her  grandchildren.  None  the 
less,  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  such  things  said  of  her,  and 
her  bust  by  Greenough  and  her  portrait  painted  by  an 
English  artist  when  she  was  in  Europe  in  1837  certainly, 
so  far  as  they  can,  bear  out  the  tradition. 

My  grandfather,  Henry  Cabot,  was  the  son  of  George 
Cabot  and  Elizabeth  Higginson,  who  were  double  first 
cousins.  In  this  way  my  grandfather  was  doubly  descended 
from  the  Reverend  Francis  Higginson,  a  graduate  of  Cam- 
bridge, England,  and  the  first  minister  of  the  first  church  of 
Salem  in  1630.  My  colleague,  Senator  Hoar,  was  also  a 
descendant  of  Francis  Higginson,  and  one  day  he  told  me, 
with  great  satisfaction,  that  through  Francis  Higginson 
we  were  both  descended  from  the  sister  of  Chaucer.  I 
received  the  information  with  due  respect  because  Mr. 
Hoar  seemed  so  pleased,  but  I  confess  the  connection  struck 
me  as  a  trifle  remote. 

The  Cabots  came  to  Salem  from  the  island  of  Jersey 
toward  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  They  were 
a  numerous  race  in  the  Channel  islands,  of  pure  Norman 
extraction,  as  Stowe  gives  one  of  that  name  in  his  list  of 
those  who  accompanied  William  the  Conqueror  to  England. 
From  this  Norman  island  stock  came  the  Chabots  and 
Rohan-Chabots  and  others  of  the  name  in  France,  as  well 
as  the  Italian  branch,  including  the  navigators,  or  their 
immediate  ancestors,  as  is  shown  by  the  identity  of  arms 
and  other  evidences.  The  two  brothers  who  settled  in 
Massachusetts  married  and  had  many  descendants.  My 
great-grandfather,  George  Cabot,  left  college  in  his  sopho- 
more year  to  go  to  sea,  became  a  sea-captain  and  suc- 
cessful merchant,  and  took  a  large  part  in  the  privateering 
of  the  Revolution.  He  then  entered  public  life,  was  in  the 


HEREDITY  9 

Provincial  Congress,  in  the  State  constitutional  convention, 
in  the  State  convention  to  ratify  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  and  was  chosen  United  States  senator  in 
1791.  At  the  end  of  five  years  he  resigned  and  retired  from 
public  service,  declining  the  secretaryship  of  the  navy  to 
which  he  was  appointed  by  John  Adams  when  that  depart- 
ment was  established.  He  continued,  however,  to  be  the 
leader  of  the  Hamiltonian  Federalists  in  Massachusetts 
until  his  death,  and  in  1814  was  president  of  the  Hartford 
convention.  He  was  the  friend  of  Washington  and  a  very 
intimate  friend  of  Hamilton,  whose  measures  he  strongly 
supported  when  he  was  in  the  Senate. 

Mr.  Samuel  E.  Morison,  who  has  made  a  most  thorough 
study  of  the  politics  of  that  period,  in  his  paper  upon  "The 
First  National  Nominating  Convention  of  1808,"  describes 
Mr.  Cabot's  position  at  that  time  in  the  following  words : 

"The  chief  support  of  the  Clinton  coalition  came  from 
Boston.  Otis,  whose  eloquence,  it  is  said,  turned  the  bal- 
ance in  favor  of  DeWitt  Clinton  in  the  Federalist  convention 
of  1812,  was  equally  strong  in  favor  of  George  Clinton  in 
1808.  Another  powerful  advocate  of  coalition  was  George 
Cabot.  Cabot  since  1804  had  occupied  in  his  party  a  posi- 
tion similar  to  that  of  Jefferson  in  the  Republican  party 
after  1808.  From  Brookline,  as  from  Monticello,  the  active 
party  leaders  received  letters  that  spoke  with  authority. 
Easily  the  intellectual  leader  of  his  party  since  the  death  of 
Hamilton,  George  Cabot  in  his  study  at  Brookline  saw  what 
no  other  Federalist  had  the  wisdom  to  see,  that  a  page  of 
democratic  evolution  had  been  turned,  and  the  days  of 
Federalist  ascendancy  had  passed  never  to  return." 

Soon  after  my  graduation  from  Harvard  I  published 
Mr.  Cabot's  letters,  with  an  accompanying  memoir.  I  omit- 
ted, through  ignorance  of  its  existence,  the  description  of 
him  given  by  William  Ellery  Channing  in  his  article  upon 


10  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  "Union,"  which  I  ought  to  have  put  by  the  side  of 
Webster's  brief  eulogy.  I  now  place  it  here,  because  it  is 
the  best  estimate  of  Mr.  Cabot's  character  and  services  by 
a  contemporary  that  I  have  ever  seen.  I  will  give  what 
Mr.  Webster  said  first,  and  then  Channing's  more  elaborate 
analysis.  In  his  brief  autobiography1  Mr.  Webster  wrote: 
"To  my  endeavors  to  maintain  a  sound  currency,  I  owe 
the  acquaintance  and  friendship  of  the  late  Mr.  Cabot, 
who  was  kind  enough  to  think  me  entitled  to  his  regard." 
In  his  speech  before  the  New  England  Society  of  New 
York  in  1843  he  said:  "And  the  mention  of  the  father  of 
my  friend,  Mr.  Goodhue,  brings  to  my  mind  the  memory 
of  his  great  colleague,  the  early  associate  of  Hamilton  and 
of  Ames,  trusted  and  beloved  by  Washington,  consulted  on 
all  occasions  connected  with  the  administration  of  the 
finances,  the  establishment  of  the  Treasury  Department, 
the  imposition  of  the  first  rates  of  duty,  and  with  everything 
that  belonged  to  the  commercial  system  of  the  United 
States — George  Cabot  of  Massachusetts." 

Channing,  more  elaborate,  wrote  as  follows: 
"We  know  not  in  what  manner  we  can  better  communi- 
cate our  views  of  the  Federal  party,  of  its  merits  and  de- 
fects, than  by  referring  to  that  distinguished  man,  who  was 
so  long  prominent  in  its  ranks;  we  mean  the  late  George 
Cabot.  If  any  man  in  this  region  deserved  to  be  called  its 
leader,  it  was  he,  and  a  stronger  proof  of  its  political  purity 
cannot  be  imagined,  than  is  found  in  the  ascendency  which 
this  illustrious  individual  maintained  over  it.  He  was  the 
last  man  to  be  charged  with  a  criminal  ambition.  His  mind 
rose  far  above  office.  The  world  had  no  station  which  would 
have  tempted  him  from  private  life.  But  in  private  life,  he 
exerted  the  sway  which  is  the  worthiest  prize  of  a  lofty 
ambition.  He  was  consulted  with  something  of  the  re- 

1  Writings,  &c.,  of  Daniel  Webster,  National  Edition,  Vol.  XVII,  p.  26. 


HEREDITY  11 

spect  which  was  paid  to  an  ancient  oracle,  and  no  mind 
among  us  contributed  so  much  to  the  control  of  public 
affairs.  It  is  interesting  to  inquire  by  what  intellectual 
attributes  he  gained  this  influence;  and,  as  his  character 
now  belongs  to  history,  perhaps  we  may  render  no  unaccept- 
able service  in  delineating  its  leading  features. 

"We  think,  that  he  was  distinguished  by  nothing  so 
much  as  by  the  power  of  ascending  to  general  principles, 
and  by  the  reverence  and  constancy  with  which  he  adhered 
to  them.  The  great  truths  of  history  and  experience,  the 
immutable  laws  of  human  nature,  according  to  which  all 
measures  should  be  framed,  shone  on  his  intellectual  eye 
with  an  unclouded  brightness.  No  impatience  of  present 
evils,  no  eagerness  for  immediate  good,  ever  tempted  him 
to  think,  that  these  might  be  forsaken  with  impunity.  To 
these  he  referred  all  questions  on  which  he  was  called  to 
judge,  and  accordingly  his  conversation  had  a  character  of 
comprehensive  wisdom,  which,  joined  with  his  urbanity, 
secured  to  him  a  singular  sway  over  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 
With  such  a  mind,  he  of  course  held  in  contempt  the  tem- 
porary expedients  and  motley  legislation  of  common-place 
politicians.  He  looked  with  singular  aversion  on  everything 
factitious,  forced,  and  complicated  in  policy.  We  have 
understood,  that  by  the  native  strength  and  simplicity  of 
his  mind,  he  anticipated  the  lights,  which  philosophy  and 
experience  have  recently  thrown  on  the  importance  of  leav- 
ing enterprise,  industry,  and  commerce  free.  He  carried 
into  politics  the  great  axiom  which  the  ancient  sages  car- 
ried into  morals,  ' Follow  nature.'  In  an  age  of  reading, 
he  leaned  less  than  most  men  on  books.  A  more  independ- 
ent mind  our  country  perhaps  has  not  produced.  When  we 
think  of  his  whole  character,  when  with  the  sagacity  of  his 
intellect  we  combine  the  integrity  of  his  heart,  the  dignified 
grace  of  his  manners,  and  the  charm  of  his  conversation, 


12  EARLY  MEMORIES 

we  hardly  know  the  individual,  with  the  exception  of  Wash- 
ington, whom  we  should  have  offered  more  willingly  to  a 
foreigner  as  a  specimen  of  the  men  whom  America  can 
produce. 

"Still  we  think,  that  his  fine  qualities  were  shaded  by 
what  to  us  is  a  great  defect,  though  to  some  it  may  appear 
a  proof  of  his  wisdom.  He  wanted  a  just  faith  in  man's 
capacity  of  freedom,  at  least  in  that  degree  of  it  which  our 
institutions  suppose.  He  inclined  to  dark  views  of  the 
condition  and  prospects  of  his  country.  He  had  too  much 
of  the  wisdom  of  experience.  He  wanted  what  may  be 
called  the  wisdom  of  hope.  In  man's  past  history  he  read 
too  much  what  is  to  come,  and  measured  our  present  capac- 
ity of  political  good  too  much  by  the  unsuccessful  experi- 
ments of  former  times.  We  apprehend,  that  it  is  possible 
to  make  experience  too  much  our  guide;  and  such  was 
the  fault  of  this  distinguished  man.  There  are  seasons,  in 
human  affairs,  of  inward  and  outward  revolution,  when  new 
depths  seem  to  be  broken  up  in  the  soul,  when  new  wants 
are  unfolded  in  multitudes,  and  a  new  and  undefined  good 
is  thirsted  for.  These  are  periods,  when  the  principles  of 
experience  need  to  be  modified,  when  hope  and  trust  and 
instinct  claim  a  share  with  prudence  in  the  guidance  of 
affairs,  when  in  truth  to  dare  is  the  highest  wisdom.  Now, 
in  the  distinguished  man  of  whom  we  speak,  there  was  little 
or  nothing  of  that  enthusiasm,  which,  we  confess,  seems  to 
us  sometimes  the  surest  light.  He  lived  in  the  past,  when 
the  impulse  of  the  age  was  towards  the  future.  He  was 
slow  to  promise  himself  any  great  amelioration  of  human 
affairs;  and  whilst  singularly  successful  in  discerning  the 
actual  good,  which  results  from  the  great  laws  of  nature  and 
Providence,  he  gave  little  hope  that  this  good  was  to  be 
essentially  enlarged.  To  such  a  man,  the  issue  of  the 
French  Revolution  was  a  confirmation  of  the  saddest  les- 


HEREDITY  13 

sons  of  history,  and  these  lessons  he  applied  too  faithfully 
to  his  own  country.  His  influence  in  communicating 
sceptical,  disheartening  views  of  human  affairs,  seems  to  us 
to  have  been  so  important  as  to  form  a  part  of  our  history, 
and  it  throws  much  light  on  what  we  deem  the  great  polit- 
ical error  of  the  Federalists." 

As  I  conclude  this  brief  outline  of  my  New  England  an- 
cestry I  am  struck  by  the  lack  of  what  is  usually  conspicu- 
ous in  such  pedigrees — the  clerical  strain.  Except  for 
Francis  Higginson,  eminent  indeed  among  New  England 
divines  as  the  first  minister  of  Salem,  and  pathetic  in  his 
early  death,  brought  on  by  his  devotion  to  his  people  and 
his  belief,  I  find  on  both  sides  merchants  and  sailors,  sea- 
captains  and  soldiers,  men  of  action  and  men  in  business 
and  in  public  life,  but  no  clergymen.  They  seem  on  both 
sides  likewise  to  have  been,  as  a  rule,  hardy,  active,  and  suc- 
cessful, taking  part  in  the  life  of  their  time,  and  filling  a  place 
in  the  world,  whether  large  or  small,  by  work  and  energy. 


CHAPTER  II 
EARLIEST  MEMORIES:   1850-1860 

I  WAS  born  in  Boston,  as  I  have  been  credibly  informed, 
on  May  12,  one  pleasant  Sunday  morning  in  the  year  1850. 
The  house  in  which  this  event  occurred  belonged  to  my 
grandfather,  Henry  Cabot,  for  whom  I  was  named.  It  was 
a  square  stone  house  of  smooth  granite,  large,  comfortable, 
facing  south,  and  open  on  all  sides.  Two  short  streets  called, 
respectively,  Otis  Place  and  Winthrop  Place,  ran  out  of 
Summer  Street,  and,  curving  to  the  left  and  right,  met,  and 
thus  formed  a  horseshoe.  At  the  bottom  of  the  horseshoe 
stood  our  house,  having  on  one  side  a  small  private  lane,  which 
was  closed  by  an  iron  gate.  This  lane  led  to  our  stable  and 
thence  turned  to  the  east  and  meandered  in  the  form  of  an 
alley  into  Franklin  Street.  It  was  not  much  used  except 
by  the  owners  and  as  an  access  to  our  stable,  but  it  offered 
a  short  cut  to  the  business  quarter  of  the  town,  which  was  not 
overlooked  by  those  who  were  familiar  with  the  neighbor- 
hood and  anxious  to  save  time.  One  morning  somebody 
encountered  Rufus  Choate,  who  lived  in  Winthrop  Place, 
hurrying  down  this  alley,  and  expressed  surprise  at  meeting 
him  there.  "Yes,"  said  Mr.  Choate,  "ignominious,  but 
convenient,"  and  passed  on. 

Back  of  the  house  was  a  garden,  an  ample  garden,  which 
ran  out  also  beside  the  house  to  the  street.  Here  stood  a 
weather-worn  marble  statue  of  a  garden  nymph,  which, 
with  the  assistance  of  a  young  friend,  Sturgis  Bigelow,  I 
pushed  over  one  happy  day,  and  was  thereby  involved  in  an 

14 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES  :  1850-1860  15 

Iliad  of  woes,  not  because  of  the  mischief  itself,  but  because 
I  undertook  to  lay  the  responsibility  upon  my  companion, 
a  mean-spirited  effort  that  aroused  my  father's  just  anger, 
which  I  greatly  dreaded,  although  he  never  inflicted  the 
slightest  physical  punishment  upon  me.  The  garden  was 
a  sunny  and  sheltered  spot,  and  behind  the  nymph  of 
bitter  memories  stood  some  fine  pear-trees,  much  cherished 
by  my  father,  and  I  have  still  the  medals  with  which  their 
fruit  was  crowned  at  various  horticultural  expositions. 

As  I  recall  the  old  house  (it  was  not  really  very  old,  but 
it  was  large  and  solid  and  spacious,  with  a  fine  air  of  age 
and  permanence)  it  seems  to  me  that  there  was  an  atmos- 
phere about  it  and  its  garden,  and  about  the  quiet  court  in 
front,  and  the  like  solid  houses  surrounding  it,  which  no 
longer  exists  in  Boston  or  in  any  American  city.  All  that 
quarter  of  the  town  indeed  was  pervaded  by  the  same  atmos- 
phere. Hard  by  was  Summer  Street,  lined  with  superb 
horse-chestnut  trees,  beneath  whose  heavy  shade  the  sober 
well-built  houses  took  on  in  spring  and  summer  an  air  of 
cool  remoteness.  Farther  to  the  east,  where  Summer  and 
Bedford  Streets  came  together,  stood  the  New  South  Church, 
with  a  broad  green  in  front  and  trees  clustering  about  it. 
A  little  farther  still  and  more  to  the  south  of  us  was  Essex 
Street,  which  was  dignified  by  great  English  elms.  Two  of 
these  elms,  a  short  distance  beyond  the  house  where  Wendell 
Phillips  lived,  lingered  on  long  after  trade  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  whole  region.  They  seemed,  in  their  last  days 
of  gaunt  survival,  like  a  melancholy  protest  against  the 
destruction  of  the  old  town. 

It  was  long  before  I  reasoned  out  the  underlying  meaning 
of  all  this,  long  after  our  old  house  and  garden  had  been 
swept  out  of  existence  by  the  new  street  which  was  pushed 
through  into  the  quiet  court  to  make  way  for  the  roaring 
tides  of  business,  which  now  ebb  and  flow  over  the  spot 


16  EARLY  MEMORIES 

without  anything  resembling  a  private  house  to  be  seen 
anywhere  in  the  neighborhood.  The  fact  was  that  the  year 
1850  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  new  time,  but  the  old  time  was 
still  visible  from  it,  still  indeed  prevailed  about  it.  I  do  not 
think  that  it  was  in  itself  a  very  remarkable  year,  and  it 
has  always  seemed  to  me  most  noteworthy  on  account  of 
the  extreme  and  disagreeable  ease  with  which  one's  age 
could  be  computed  from  it,  but  the  year  1850  came  never- 
theless at  a  memorable  period  and  had  memorable  com- 
panions. I  have  often  said  and  written  that  there  was  a 
wider  difference  between  the  men  who  fought  at  Water- 
loo and  those  who  fought  at  Gettysburg  or  Sedan  or 
Mukden  than  there  was  between  the  followers  of  Leonidas 
and  the  soldiers  of  Napoleon.  This  is  merely  one  way  of 
stating  that  the  application  of  steam  and  electricity  to 
transportation  and  communication  made  a  greater  change 
in  human  environment  than  had  occurred  since  the  earliest 
period  of  recorded  history.  The  break  between  the  old  and 
the  new  came  some  time  in  the  thirties,  and  1850  was  well 
within  the  new  period.  Yet  at  that  date  this  new  period 
was  still  very  new,  hardly  more  than  a  dozen  years  old, 
and  the  ideas  of  the  earlier  time — the  habits,  the  modes  of 
life,  although  mortally  smitten  and  fast  fading — were  still 
felt,  still  dominant.  The  men  and  women  of  the  elder  time 
with  the  old  feelings  and  habits  were,  of  course,  very 
numerous,  and  for  the  most  part  were  quite  unconscious 
that  their  world  was  slipping  away  from  them.  Hence  the 
atmosphere  of  our  old  stone  house,  with  its  lane,  its 
pear-trees,  and  its  garden  nymph,  indeed  of  Boston  itself, 
was  still  an  eighteenth-century  atmosphere,  if  we  accept 
Sir  Walter  Besant's  statement  that  the  eighteenth  century 
ended  in  1837.  At  all  events,  it  was  an  atmosphere  utterly 
different  from  anything  to  be  found  to-day. 

The  year  1850,  too,  stood  well  beyond  the  zenith  of  the 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES  :   1850-1860  17 

romantic  movement,  which  in  outward  seeming  continued 
in  full  control,  but  which  was  in  reality  upon  the  downward 
slope,  as  one  can  easily  see  to-day.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
unrest,  which  was  apparent  in  all  directions,  and  the  revolt 
against  the  reaction  of  1815,  was  just  culminating.  Two 
years  before,  in  1848,  the  outbreak  had  come  in  Europe, 
and  the  movement  which  was  to  result  in  the  consolidation 
of  the  United  States  and  of  Germany,  in  the  unification  of 
Italy,  the  liberation  of  the  slaves,  the  emancipation  of  the 
Russian  serfs,  and  the  wide  extension  of  democratic  and 
representative  government,  was  resuming  its  sweeping  and 
victorious  march,  which  had  been  checked  at  Waterloo.  It 
was  the  day  of  the  human-rights  statesmen  just  rising  to 
power,  of  the  men  who  believed  that  in  political  liberty  was 
to  be  found  the  cure  for  every  human  ill,  and  that  all  the 
world  needed  in  order  to  assure  human  happiness  was  to 
give  every  man  a  vote  and  set  him  free.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  the  year  1850  came  at  the  dawn  of  a  new  time, 
at  the  birth  of  new  forces  now  plainly  recognized,  but  the 
meaning  and  scope  of  which  are  as  yet  little  understood, 
and  the  results  of  which  can  only  be  darkly  guessed,  because 
the  past  has  but  a  dim  light  to  throw  upon  the  untried 
paths  ahead.  Yet,  none  the  less,  that  which  was  first 
apparent  to  the  child  born  in  1850,  as  he  came  to  conscious- 
ness during  the  next  ten  years,  was  the  old  world  which 
still  surrounded  him,  for  a  child,  happily  for  himself,  sees 
only  what  is  near  to  him — his  present  seems  to  have 
existed  always  and  is  haunted  with  no  shadow  of  change. 
In  1850  Boston  had  a  population  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-three  thousand,  which  by  1860  had  risen  to  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy  thousand,  about  one-fourth  of  the  present 
population  of  the  city  proper,  if  we  take  the  average  for 
the  decade.  The  whole  State  of  Massachusetts  had  only  a 
million  people  in  1850,  less  than  one-third  of  its  population 


18  EARLY  MEMORIES 

to-day,  much  less  even  than  the  population  now  gathered 
in  Boston  and  in  those  suburbs  which  can  be  distinguished 
by  no  outward  sign  from  the  city  itself.  The  tide-waters  of 
the  Back  Bay  still  rose  and  fell  to  the  west  of  the  peninsula, 
and  that  large  region  now  filled  in  and  covered  with  hand- 
some houses  had  no  existence.  The  best  houses  of  that  day 
were  in  Summer  Street  and  its  neighborhood,  then  just  be- 
ginning to  yield  to  the  advance  of  trade,  or  else  were  clus- 
tered on  the  slopes  of  Beacon  Hill.  Opposite  to  us  in  Win- 
throp  Place,  for  example,  were  two  large  stone  houses  with 
yards  or  gardens  like  our  own,  one  occupied  by  Joshua 
Blake,  my  great-grandfather's  brother,  the  other  by  Samuel 
Cabot,  and  later  by  George  Bancroft,  the  historian.  On 
one  side  our  neighbors  were  the  Hunnewells  and  on  the 
other  the  Bowditches.  In  Winthrop  Place  lived  Rufus 
Choate,  and  close  by  in  Summer  Street  or  its  immediate 
vicinity  were  the  houses  of  Daniel  Webster  and  Edward 
Everett,  of  the  Grays,  Gardners,  Frothinghams,  Bigelows, 
Lees,  Jacksons,  Higginsons,  and  Cushings.  The  list  might 
be  indefinitely  extended,  but  I  have  mentioned  names 
enough  to  show,  especially  to  Bostonians,  the  character  of 
that  quarter  of  the  town  now  extinct  except  for  purposes 
of  trade  and  commerce. 

Boston  itself  was  then  small  enough  to  be  satisfying 
to  a  boy's  desires.  It  was  possible  to  grasp  one's  little 
world  and  to  know  and  to  be  known  by  everybody  in  one's 
own  fragment  of  society.  The  town  still  had  personality, 
lineaments  which  could  be  recognized,  and  had  not  yet  lost 
its  identity  in  the  featureless,  characterless  masses  insepara- 
ble from  a  great  city.  I  do  not  say  that  this  was  an  advan- 
tage; I  merely  note  it  as  a  fact.  Local  character  may  easily 
be  repellent.  Many  of  us  prefer  not  only  the  interests  and 
pleasures  which  only  very  large  cities  can  give,  but  also  the 
unmarked  vagueness  which  is  typical  of  huge  hordes  of 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES  :  1850-1860  19 

people  as  it  is  of  the  wastes  of  ocean.  Whatever  its  merits 
or  defects,  however,  Boston  in  the  first  decade  of  the  sec- 
ond half  of  the  nineteenth  century  had  a  meaning  and  a 
personality,  and  even  a  boy  could  feel  them.  It  may  have 
been  narrow,  austere,  at  times  even  harsh,  this  personality, 
but  it  was  there,  and  it  was  strong,  manly,  and  aggressive. 
It  would  still  have  been  possible  to  rally  the  people  in  1850, 
as  they  were  once  rallied  against  the  British  soldiers  on  a 
certain  cold  March  evening  with  the  cry  of  "Town  born, 
turn  out!" 

Yet  again,  whatever  the  advantages  or  disadvantages  of 
this  condition,  Boston  in  those  days  offered  for  a  small  boy 
an  opportunity  to  live  contentedly  within  its  limits.  We 
could  play  in  each  other's  gardens  or  yards,  for  generous 
gardens  and  large  yards  still  existed,  a  bequest  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  when  there  seems  to  have  been  more  land 
and  more  leisure  for  city  gardens  than  there  is  to-day.  Best 
of  all,  we  had  the  Common,  where  we  could  disport  our- 
selves as  of  right.  There  we  played  all  the  games,  rising, 
as  we  went,  on  to  football  and  baseball.  There  in  winter 
we  coasted  on  the  "Big  Hill"  and  on  the  long  path  running 
from  the  Park  and  Beacon  Street  corner,  very  near  to  the 
other  "Long  Path"  made  memorable  by  the  "Autocrat," 
but  which  was  less  suitable  for  sleds  than  for  lovers. 
We  skated,  of  course,  on  the  Frog  Pond;  and  on  the 
Common  we  also  waged  Homeric  combats  with  snowballs 
against  the  boys  from  the  South  Cove  and  the  North  End, 
in  which  we  made  gallant  fights,  but  were  in  the  end,  as 
a  rule,  outnumbered  and  driven  back.  What  was  more 
serious,  the  ever-increasing  number  of  our  opponents  grad- 
ually by  sheer  weight  pushed  us,  and  still  more  our  suc- 
cessors, from  the  Common  hills  and  the  Frog  Pond  to 
seek  coasting  and  skating  in  the  country.  This  was  luckily 
not  such  a  heavy  infliction  as  might  be  supposed,  for  be- 


20  EARLY  MEMORIES 

tween  1850  and  1867,  when  I  went  to  Harvard,  the  country 
was  reached  as  soon  as  one  stepped  outside  the  city  limits. 
One  had  but  to  cross  the  mill-dam  to  attain  to  the  country, 
for  the  towns  close  to  Boston  were  in  those  days  small  and 
rural  and  had  not  yet  become  paved  portions  of  the  big, 
absorbing  capital. 

I  have  spoken  first  of  that  which  is  most  important  to  a 
well-constituted  boy,  as  I  hope  that  I  was — the  oppor- 
tunities for  play  and  amusement.  But  what  is  technically 
called  education  began  at  the  same  time.  I  remember 
distinctly  hearing  my  father  say  one  evening:  "That  big 
boy  is  five  years  old  and  cannot  read.  It  is  time  that 
he  went  to  school."  The  statement  gave  me  no  pleasure; 
quite  the  contrary.  My  world,  I  thought,  was  very  well  as 
it  was.  However,  the  command  had  gone  forth  from  the 
Olympians,  and  to  school  I  went  the  following  autumn.  A 
friend  of  my  mother,  Mrs.  Parkman,  had  formed  the  idea 
of  getting  together  the  sons  of  a  few  of  her  friends  who  were 
about  the  same  age  as  her  own  boy,  and  thus  making  a  little 
school  which  she  could  teach  herself.  The  plan  was  car- 
ried out  with  marked  success.  The  school  was  small,  the 
boys  were  picked.  Mrs.  Parkman  took  an  intense,  affec- 
tionate, and  personal  interest  in  each  one  of  us,  the  kind  of 
interest  that  no  money  could  buy;  and  then  she  was  herself 
very  different  from  any  school-teacher  I  have  ever  known 
or  heard  of  before  or  since.  A  descendant  of  John  Eliot, 
the  apostle  to  the  Indians,  of  the  best  New  England  stock 
on  both  sides  of  the  house,  she  was  a  well-bred  woman  in 
the  fullest  sense,  and,  what  was  rarer  perhaps  in  those  days, 
a  woman  of  the  world  in  the  best  sense.  She  possessed  un- 
usual abilities,  real  learning,  and  was  widely  read.  When  I 
was  at  her  school  I  regarded  her  with  the  settled  hostility 
with  which  I  think  most  vigorous  boys  regard  any  one  who 
tries  to  teach  them  anything  which  is  not  a  sport.  In  later 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES  :  1850-1860  21 

years,  after  I  had  graduated  from  Harvard,  married,  and 
settled  in  Boston,  Mrs.  Parkman  became  one  of  my  best  and 
dearest  friends.  There  are  few  friendships  which  I  look 
back  to  with  more  pleasure.  She  was  one  of  the  cleverest 
and  wisest  women,  one  of  the  cleverest  and  wisest  persons, 
I  have  ever  known.  I  delighted  to  talk  with  her  about 
everything  which  was  interesting  me  as  a  young  man.  She 
had  both  wit  and  humor,  wide  knowledge  of  men  and 
books,  and  intense  beliefs,  as  well  as  strong  likes  and  dis- 
likes, but  she  never  meant  to  be  intolerant  or  unfair.  She 
died  prematurely  and  made  a  great  gap  in  my  friendships, 
one  of  the  kind  which  time  closes  perhaps  but  never  fills. 

I  suppose  that  I  then  learned  to  read  and  write,  because 
I  have  no  clear  remembrance  of  a  time  when  I  did  not  pos- 
sess those  two  accomplishments.  I  am  certain  that  I  was 
taught  the  rudiments  of  arithmetic,  because  such  acquisi- 
tion as  I  effected  was  painful,  both  at  the  moment  and  in 
recollection.  Anything  relating  to  figures  or  mathematics 
I  regarded  with  a  settled  hate,  both  then  and  afterwards. 
I  also  remember  that  I  began  the  study  of  French,  which  I 
liked,  and  I  think  I  recall  it  chiefly  because  the  teacher, 
Doctor  Arnaux,  tall,  thin,  grave,  dark,  and  solemnly  polite, 
presented  a  figure  the  like  of  which  I  had  never  seen  before 
upon  my  little  Boston  horizon.  These  were  some  of  the 
things  I  learned  or  which  were  thrust  into  me,  but  of  edu- 
cation in  its  true  sense  I  got  nothing  except  a  single  sentence 
from  Mrs.  Parkman:  " Use  your  mind.  I  do  not  care  what 
you  answer  if  you  only  use  your  mind."  At  the  time  her 
words  seemed  to  me  merely  the  outcry  of  a  very  natural 
irritation,  a  distinctly  hostile  utterance,  yet  in  some  way 
the  phrase  clung  to  my  memory,  and  in  years  long  after  I 
came  to  think  that  to  know  how  to  use  one's  mind  com- 
prises pretty  nearly  the  whole  of  education.  There  is,  how- 
ever, one  recollection  connected  with  this  first  school,  al- 
though very  far  removed  from  any  idea  of  tasks  and  lessons, 


22  EARLY  MEMORIES 

which  I  must  record.  Mrs.  (Fanny)  Kemble  at  that  time 
lived  much  in  Massachusetts,  where  she  was  warmly  admired 
and  had  many  friends,  especially  among  the  women  of  my 
mother's  age.  One  of  her  closest  and  most  intimate  friends 
was  Mrs.  Parkman,  and  I  remember  Mrs.  Kemble's  coming 
to  the  school  and  reading  to  us.  I  had  forgotten  that  there 
was  another  reading  at  Mr.  Ticknor's  house  for  the  benefit 
of  the  children  until  my  old  friend  Henry  Parkman  re- 
minded me  of  it.  She  read  that  noblest  of  old  ballads, 
"Chevy  Chase,"  which  I  recall,  and  no  doubt  other  poems 
or  plays  the  recollection  of  which  has  perished.  How  she 
looked  I  cannot  now  picture  to  myself,  for  the  first  image  is 
blotted  out  by  a  much  later  one  obtained  when  I  heard  her 
read  in  public  on  several  occasions  and  when  she  was  an 
elderly  woman.  What  I  retain  of  that  earliest  time  is  the 
memory  of  her  deep,  melodious  voice  and  a  sense  which 
lingers  with  me  still  that  she  was  an  awe-inspiring  person- 
age at  whom  I  gazed  in  round-eyed  wonder. 

But  Boston  and  winter — although  I  loved  the  heavy 
snow-storms  and  the  coasting  and  skating — Boston  and 
winter  and  school  and  what  passed  for  education  were  not 
only  the  lesser  but  the  worser  part  of  life.  The  joy  of 
living  in  its  full  sense  was  united  indissolubly  with  the 
summer  and  the  sea.  I  had  something  of  the  sea  in 
Boston,  for  my  father  was  a  China  merchant,  and,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  merchants  of  those  days,  had  his  office  in 
the  granite  block  which  stretched  down  to  the  end  of  Com- 
mercial Wharf.  His  counting-room  was  at  the  very  end 
in  the  last  division  of  the  block,  and  from  the  windows  I 
could  look  out  on  the  ships  lying  alongside  the  wharf.  They 
were  beautiful  vessels,  American  clipper  ships  in  the  days 
when  our  ships  of  that  type  were  famous  throughout  the 
world  for  speed  and  stanchness.  I  wandered  about  over 
their  decks,  making  friends  with  the  captains,  the  seamen, 
and  the  ship-keepers,  and  taking  a  most  absorbing  interest  in 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES  :  1850-1860  23 

everything  connected  with  them.  They  brought  me  from 
China  admirable  firecrackers  and  strange  fireworks,  fasci- 
nating in  appearance,  but  which  I  could  not  "make  go" 
at  all.  From  them,  too,  came  bronzes  and  porcelains 
and  pictures  and  carved  ivories,  which  I  was  wont  to  look 
at  wonderingly,  and  ginger  and  sweetmeats  and  lychee-nuts 
(then  almost  unknown  here),  of  which  I  used  to  partake 
with  keen  delight.  For  the  teas  and  silks  which  filled  the 
holds  I  cared  nothing,  but  the  history  and  adventures  of 
the  ships  interested  me  greatly.  I  was  indifferent  to  those 
which  my  father  had  bought  and  which  rejoiced  in  such 
names  as  the  Alfred  Hill  and  Sarah  H.  Snow,  but  I  cared  enor- 
mously for  the  others,  which  he  had  built  and  named  himself. 
One  was  the  Argonaut,  his  "luckiest"  ship,  in  which  he  told 
me  I  had  an  interest  or  share.  I  still  have  a  stiff  picture 
of  her  painted  by  a  Chinese  artist  in  the  Western  manner, 
and  a  very  beautiful  ship  she  must  have  been.  Second  only 
to  the  Argonaut  in  my  affections  were  two  named  for  the 
heroes  of  one  of  my  father's  best-loved  books,  the  Don 
Quixote  and  the  Sancho  Panza.  Then  there  were  still  others, 
crack  ships  in  their  day,  whose  names  appealed  to  my 
imagination — the  Kremlin,  the  Storm  King,  the  Cossack, 
and  the  Magnet.  But  over  all  was  the  mystery  and  the 
fascination  of  the  sea,  and  those  who  have  been  born  at 
its  edge  and  have  fallen  under  its  spell  are  never  happy 
when  long  parted  from  the  ocean  and  the  ships.  Long- 
fellow has  given  once  for  all  in  verse  what  many  a  New 
England  boy,  born  by  the  sea,  has  felt  and,  having  once 
felt,  has  never  forgotten: 

"  I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 

And  the  magic  of  the  sea." 


24  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Such  I  know  was  my  feeling,  and  I  can  see  now  the  look 
of  the  wharf  and  the  men  and  the  ships  as  I  gazed  at  them 
from  the  window  of  the  counting-room  or  wandered  about 
their  decks. 

I  am  happy  to  find  that  I  am  not  alone  in  my  memory 
of  the  wharves  and  ships  of  those  early  days.  In  his  charm- 
ing book  about  "Boston  New  and  Old/'  my  friend  and  con- 
temporary Russell  Sullivan  says:  "Here,  at  Commercial 
Wharf,  too,  and  at  Lewis  Wharf,  came  in  the  merchantmen. 
The  lofts  and  ground  floors  of  the  buildings  were  stored 
with  products  of  the  Indies;  midway,  sunny  counting  rooms 
overlooked  the  water,  the  loading  and  discharging  vessels. 
There,  where  the  merchants  spent  their  days,  the  wide, 
comfortable  spaces  fitted  with  time  honored  furniture,  with 
paintings  of  clipper  ships  upon  the  walls,  had  a  look  of  well- 
ordered  repose,  and,  between  cargoes,  were,  indeed,  at  times 
so  quiet  that  the  gentle  lap  of  the  harbor-waves  could  be 
heard  against  the  wooden  piers  below.  There  was  always 
a  fragrance  of  mingled  spices  in  the  air  which  tranquil  dig- 
nity pervaded.  They  had  their  rough  and  tumble  days,  to 
be  sure,  when  bags  of  ginger,  cases  of  nutmegs  and  flat  bales 
of  dusty  palm-leaf  swung  up  from  the  hold  so  fast  that  the 
tally-clerks  lost  count,  confusion  reigned  and  tempers  went 
by  the  board.  The  troops  of  small  boys  who  came  collect- 
ing foreign  postage  stamps  and  the  decorative  shipping- 
cards  of  elaborate  design  which  were  in  vogue,  must  have 
been  a  pestering  nuisance,  yet  were  civilly  endured.  Only 
a  few  ill-natured  consignees  hung  out  signs  warning  off  these 
youthful  mendicants." 

I  remember  one  product  of  the  Indies  discovered  by 
Columbus  which  Mr.  Sullivan  fails  to  mention,  although  it 
was  an  import  from  which  the  youth  of  the  period  drew  an 
immediate  revenue.  On  India  Wharf,  and  no  doubt  on 
others,  were  frequently  gathered  in  serried  ranks  lying  side 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES  :   1850-1860  25 

by  side  large  groups  of  great  hogsheads  filled  with  West 
Indian  molasses.  Those  who  came  to  buy  not  infrequently 
left  the  long  stick  with  which  they  tested  the  contents  stand- 
ing in  the  bung-hole  of  the  cask.  To  draw  forth  this  stick 
dripping  with  molasses  was  simple,  then,  regardless  of  dirt 
and  impurities,  to  run  the  finger  along  it  and  convey  the 
finger  to  the  mouth  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  It  is  not 
a  form  of  gluttony  which  would  attract  me  now,  but  my 
friends  and  I  enjoyed  this  black  molasses  hugely,  although 
not  even  theft  could  add  to  its  intense  and  cloying,  if  dirty, 
sweetness. 

Of  the  boys  who  went  stamp-collecting  I  was  also  one, 
and  have  no  doubt  that  I  was  frequently  a  "pestering  nui- 
sance," but  it  was  a  fascinating  pursuit  although  rarely 
successful.  There  were  no  " philatelists"  in  those  days.  I 
doubt  whether  even  Shakespeare's  "well-educated  infant," 
if  he  had  lived  then,  could  have  defined  the  word.  We  had 
to  get  our  stamps  where  we  could,  from  good-natured  friends 
and  relatives  who  received  foreign  letters,  by  exchange,  or 
by  purchase  from  each  other.  There  were  wild  legends  of 
rare  stamps  having  been  obtained  from  the  offices  of  for- 
eign merchants  on  the  wharves,  and  we  wandered  about 
asking  for  them  with  splendid  and  seldom-rewarded  perse- 
verance, buoyed  up  by  the  hope  that  we  should  find  some 
office  where  the  value  of  postage-stamps  was  unknown,  and 
where  the  precious  triangles  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  or 
the  rare  issues  of  Mauritius  or  Australia  or  Java,  would  be 
poured  into  our  outstretched  palms.  It  only  happened 
now  and  then;  the  dream  seldom  came  true;  but  there  was 
a  lively  excitement  about  these  expeditions  and  the  eternal 
charm  of  treasure-hunting,  as  well  as  a  sense  of  adventure 
in  prying  into  forgotten  corners  and  going  into  all  sorts  of 
out-of-the-way  places,  which  was  very  gratifying  to  boy 
nature.  A  favorite  spot  in  the  quest  for  stamps  was  the 


26  EARLY  MEMORIES 

rooms  of  the  Missionary  Society,  which  occupied  the  top 
floor  of  a  house  in  Pemberton  Square.  Never  by  any 
chance  did  we  get  anything  there.  The  gentlemen  engaged 
in  converting  the  heathen  had,  I  think,  an  accurate  concep- 
tion of  the  value  of  the  stamps  affixed  to  letters  coming  from 
the  distant  islands  with  which  they  corresponded.  But  we 
were  repaid  for  our  toilsome  ascent  of  several  flights  of 
stairs  by  the  little  museum  maintained  by  the  society.  It 
was  a  Polynesian  collection — feather  capes,  war-clubs, 
spears,  hideous  idols,  and  endless  curiosities  which  rejoiced 
our  hearts.  I  hope  that  collection  has  been  preserved,  and 
if  I  knew  where  it  was  I  would  go  to  see  it  even  if  I  was 
compelled  to  take  an  elevator  to  ascend  to  its  resting-place. 

I  can  see,  too,  in  the  backward  glance  at  the  old  wharves 
and  counting-rooms,  that  which  begot  them,  the  shipyard 
at  Medford,  long  since  departed,  and  Mr.  Lapham,  the 
ship-builder,  and  the  vessels  on  the  stocks.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  exciting  joys  of  my  life  to  drive  out  to  Medford 
with  my  father  and  stroll  about  the  shipyard  while  he  in- 
spected the  ship  in  process  of  construction.  I  am  far  from 
decrying  steel  and  iron,  but  for  mere  grace  and  beauty  the 
old  clipper  ship  from  the  day  she  spread  her  wings  and  set 
out  under  full  sail  can  never  be  approached  by  anything 
made  of  metal  with  smoking  chimneys  and  military  masts. 

I  have  drifted  with  the  ships  far  away  from  the  summers 
of  my  boyhood,  but  the  mention  of  my  drives  with  my 
father  to  Medford  brings  me  naturally  back  to  them,  be- 
cause in  the  spring  it  was  his  habit  on  Sunday,  the  one  day 
he  had  free  from  business,  to  drive  down  to  Nahant  to  see 
our  little  place  and  inspect  the  gardens,  in  which  he  took  a 
keen  interest.  There  were  no  Sunday  trains  in  those  days, 
and  electric  cars  were  still  in  a  remote  future,  so  that  the 
only  way  of  reaching  the  desired  spot  was  to  drive. 
Our  vehicle  was  a  large  buggy.  We  changed  horses 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES:  1850-1860  27 

it  Lynn,  leaving  our  own  horse  there  to  be  fed,  and 
went  on  to  Nahant  with  a  horse  from  the  livery-stable. 
At  Nahant  we  lunched,  bringing  our  luncheon  with  us, 
examined  the  work  on  the  place,  and  wandered  about 
by  the  edge  of  the  sea  and  among  the  closed  houses, 
which  only  took  off  their  shutters  and  opened  their  eyes 
when  summer  came.  These  empty,  shut-up  houses  gave  an 
air  of  remoteness  and  solitude  to  the  little  peninsula  much 
more  tangible  than  if  it  had  been  merely  uninhabited.  To 
a  small  boy  the  whole  expedition  had  a  taste  of  adventure 
which  was  very  satisfying.  The  part,  however,  which  I 
liked  most  was  the  drive.  My  father  was  the  best  of  com- 
panions. He  had  that  somewhat  rare  gift  of  being  perfect 
company  to  a  child.  He  was  the  kindest  and  most  generous 
of  men.  I  never  remember  a  harsh  word  from  him  except 
on  one  or  two  occasions,  when  he  spoke  to  me  sternly  be- 
cause he  thought  I  was  not  telling  the  truth  or  was  exhibiting 
either  physical  or  moral  timidity.  He  was  a  man  of  great 
courage,  entirely  fearless,  and  was  said  to  have  had  a  high 
temper,  but  although  I  realized  his  courage  I  never  knew 
that  he  had  a  temper  until  one  night,  when,  as  we  were 
going  to  the  theatre,  at  a  dark  place  on  the  Common,  two 
men  pushed  into  us;  there  were  words,  I  saw  something 
glitter  in  one  man's  hand,  and  then  he  was  knocked  down 
in  the  snow  by  my  father,  who  merely  said  as  we  passed  on : 
"I  think  that  fellow  had  a  knife."  My  confidence  in  my 
father  was  so  absolute  that  at  the  moment  the  whole  affair 
appeared  to  be  altogether  commonplace  and  natural.  As 
I  look  back  upon  it  now  it  does  not  seem  quite  so  simple. 
There  had  been  a  storm  and  the  weather  was  just  clearing. 
I  can  see  the  shine  of  the  distant  gaslight  on  the  new-fallen 
snow,  the  sudden  collision  of  the  two  men  with  my  father, 
then  one  of  them  on  his  back  in  the  white  drift  with  some- 
thing glittering  in  his  hand.  Then  we  were  walking  quietly 


28  EARLY  MEMORIES 

along  again,  and  I  have  no  recollection  of  either  fright  or 
excitement.  My  faith  in  my  father  was  too  great  to  admit 
such  emotions.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  pardoned  if  I  say  a  few 
words  here  about  him,  for  he  filled  a  dominant  place  in  my 
earliest  years.  He  was  open-handed  and  generous  in  the 
highest  degree  to  the  poor,  to  all  who  were  connected  with 
him,  to  any  one  whom  he  could  help.  When  the  war  came 
he  was  unable  to  go,  for  he  was  not  only  too  old,  which  he 
would  not  admit,  but  he  had  injured  his  knee  in  a  fall  from 
his  horse,  could  not  walk  freely  and  rode  with  difficulty. 
But  he  was  an  intensely  loyal  man  and  gave  to  the  support 
of  the  war  in  every  way.  It  was  the  habit  to  subscribe 
money  to  equip  regiments.  John  C.  Ropes,  afterwards  an 
eminent  lawyer  and  distinguished  military  historian,  raised 
a  great  deal  of  money  for  this  purpose.  He  told  me  that 
my  father  always  gave,  and  on  one  occasion  when  there  was 
some  especial  need  my  father  handed  him  a  check  signed  in 
blank  and  told  him  to  fill  it  up  as  he  pleased.  Mr.  Ropes 
said  it  was  the  only  blank,  signed  check  ever  given  to  him. 
My  father  enjoyed  above  all  things  the  power  of  giving. 
He  was  overwhelmed,  overburdened  with  business  cares, 
which  broke  him  down  and  caused  his  premature  death. 
My  mother  begged  him  to  retire,  as  he  had  an  ample  fortune 
for  those  days,  but  his  reply  was:  "If  I  retire  and  live  on  a 
fixed  income  I  shall  not  be  able  to  give  as  I  do  now,  and  I 
want  to  be  able  to  give  without  stopping  to  think  about  it." 
But  it  was  not  his  generosity,  although  he  was  continu- 
ally giving  to  me,  which  made  those  Sunday  drives  so  fas- 
cinating. It  was  his  companionship.  To  the  simple,  short, 
and  familiar  journey  he  contrived  to  impart  a  charm  and 
an  interest  which  never  failed  in  their  attraction  to  the  small 
boy  who  sat  beside  him.  The  little  incidents  of  the  road 
assumed  the  proportions  of  adventures,  illuminated  by  the 
jokes  they  provoked  and  the  riddles  and  conundrums  they 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES:   1850-1860  29 

suggested,  which,  unlike  a  true  Yankee,  I  was  very  slow  in 
guessing.  Like  most  men  of  well-balanced  minds,  my  father 
had  his  pet  superstition — the  very  ancient  one  of  picking  up 
a  horseshoe  as  the  bringer  of  good  luck.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  he  cultivated  the  superstition  for  my  benefit, 
because  keeping  a  lookout  and  occasionally  seeing  and 
gathering  in  a  horseshoe  gave  an  added  excitement  to  the 
drive,  and  brought  the  precious  sensation,  when  fortune 
favored  us,  of  "treasure-trove."  The  propensity  thus  ac- 
quired I  have  both  resisted  and  indulged  all  my  life.  Then 
we  would  speculate  about  the  horse  we  should  get  at  Lynn 
when  we  changed,  and  on  our  arrival  there  the  business  of 
changing  horses  and  the  conversation  with  Mr.  Goldthwaite, 
the  proprietor,  were  to  me  an  unending  source  of  pleasure 
and  made  me  think  that  I  was  having  the  same  experiences 
as  those  which  befell  Mr.  Pickwick  in  his  immortal  travels 
in  stage-coaches.  My  father  also  talked  freely  to  me  and 
we  held  long  conversations.  He  talked  to  me  about  his 
ships,  and  about  the  place  at  Nahant,  and  about  his  cotton- 
mill,  and  about  politics,  and  above  all,  he  used  to  repeat 
poetry  to  me,  not  only  nonsense  jingles,  or  the  simple 
rhymes  of  the  school-room,  or  the  verses  of  Cowper  and  Mrs. 
Hemans,  of  Campbell  and  Southey,  but  he  would  recite  to 
me  long  passages  from  Scott  and  Gray,  and  above  all  from 
his  two  favorite  poets,  Shakespeare  and  Pope,  a  queer 
combination.  I  then  first  heard  and  learned  the  noble  and 
beautiful  verses  of  the  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard," 
but  my  father's  favorite  among  Gray's  poems  seems  to 
have  been  for  some  unfathomable  reason  "The  Bard."  So 
deeply  were  its  lines  impressed  upon  me  as  a  child,  that  to 
this  day  I  cannot  repeat 

"  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King, 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait!" 


30  EARLY  MEMORIES 

without  feeling  the  thrill  which  the  words  gave  me  when  a 
little  boy.  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when  I  did  not 
know  the  "Universal  Prayer,"  or  when  I  could  not  recite 
"The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill/'  and 

"Awake,  my  St.  John,  leave  all  meaner  things 
To  low  Ambition  and  the  pride  of  kings." 

My  idea  of  what  the  last  poem  meant  was  as  vague  as  my 
knowledge  of  Bolingbroke,  but  the  swing  and  the  ring  of 
the  verses  greatly  caught  my  fancy.  Then,  too,  it  was  that 
there  came  to  me  the  first  intimation  of  the  existence  of 
Homer  by  hearing  that 

"Aurora  now,  fair  daughter  of  the  dawn, 
Sprinkled  with  rosy  light  the  dewy  lawn," 

and  that  heroes  called  Achilles  and  Hector  and  Ulysses  had 
many  fights  and  adventures,  all  described  in  the  like  formal 
and  sonorous  fashion.  It  was  in  this  way  that  I  acquired  an 
affection  for  Pope's  rolling  and  balanced  lines,  which  was 
found  quite  odd  when  I  grew  up,  because  Queen  Anne's 
poet  had  long  been  out  of  fashion.  My  father  was  fond 
of  books  and  liked  to  talk  of  them  to  me,  young  as  I  was, 
and  my  own  reading  took,  of  course,  the  line  of  my  father's 
fancies.  He  was  very  fond  of  Cervantes,  and  I  early  became 
familiar  with  our  illustrated  copy  of  "Don  Quixote,"  pored 
over  the  pictures  and  read  all  that  I  could  understand.  He 
was  a  lover  of  Scott,  and  in  my  tenth  year  I  read  all  the 
Waverley  Novels  through  from  beginning  to  end.  I  have 
repeated  the  performance  more  than  once  since,  but  the 
joy  of  that  first  reading  can  never  be  felt  again.  The 
pleasure  of  living  in  that  other  world  filled  with  adventure 
and  with  fascinating  people  was  beyond  description.  I 
understand  that  Scott  is  now  no  longer  read  and  that  the 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES:  1850-1860  31 

young  and  wise  regard  him  as  a  poor  creature.    If  this  be 
true,  the  loss  is  the  world's  and  the  present  generation's,  and 

"  Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight." 

In  the  same  way  I  was  led  to  an  early  admiration  of  Macau- 
lay  and  to  a  far  earlier  reading  of  Hawthorne,  Dickens,  and 
"Robinson  Crusoe."  I  am  inclined  to  think,  as  I  set  down 
the  names  of  these  books,  which  I  turned  to  because  my 
father  talked  about  them,  that  his  tastes  were  conservative, 
that  he  was  not  appealed  to  by  the  romantic  or  transcen- 
dental movement  going  on  about  him,  and  that,  apart  from 
Shakespeare,  his  particular  adoration,  he  was  very  eighteenth 
century  in  his  tastes.  I  am  confirmed  in  this  by  the  fact 
that  among  his  books,  and  he  had  many,  there  was  a  par- 
ticularly handsome  and  very  complete  set  of  Horace  Wai- 
pole,  for  whom  he  seems  to  have  had  a  peculiar  affection. 
I  am  afraid  that  what  I  have  just  written  will  give  the  im- 
pression that  I  must  have  had  the  most  precocious  literary 
tastes,  which  was  not  at  all  the  case.  These  books  I  have 
mentioned  I  was  led  to  read  in  part  at  least  by  hearing  my 
father  talk  of  them,  and  Scott  was  purely  voluntary  read- 
ing on  my  part,  as  was  likewise  the  case  with  "Peter  Sim- 
ple" and  "Midshipman  Easy" — a  very  great  work.  But  I 
also  devoured  eagerly  all  the  children's  books  of  the  time, 
especially  fairy  tales,  for  which  I  had  an  inexhaustible  appe- 
tite. I  lovingly  perused  all  the  works  of  Jacob  Abbott,  as 
well  as  "Sandford  and  Merton,"  one  of  the  most  preposter- 
ous books  ever  written,  but  which  had  an  undoubted  charm 
that  I  find  it  hard  to  explain.  I  was  familiar  with  the  poems 
of  Jane  Taylor,  and  accepted  as  perfectly  natural  the  fero- 
cious punishments  therein  meted  out  to  youthful  trans- 
gressors. The  extremely  humorous  side  of  those  poems, 
quite  unintended  by  the  authoress,  has  been,  I  may  add,  a 


32  EARLY  MEMORIES 

source  of  real  pleasure  to  me  all  my  life,  as  I  have  been  able 
to  recall  those  jingling  verses  better  than  many  more  valu- 
able things.  I  also  read  all  Miss  Edgeworth's  writings — 
"Parents'  Assistant,"  "Frank,"  "Harry  and  Lucy,"  and 
"Rosamond  and  the  Purple  Jar."  At  that  time  the  intol- 
erable didacticism  of  the  stories  did  not  bore  me,  nor  did  I 
have  the  satisfaction  of  appreciating  the  brutal  immorality 
of  such  persons  as  Rosamond's  mother  in  her  treatment  of 
her  luckless  and  deceived  offspring. 

But  I  have  spent  a  long  time  in  getting  to  Nahant  and 
my  summers  there.  I  have  drifted  away  on  the  sea  of  litera- 
ture as  I  did  before  on  the  clipper  ships.  Neither  perhaps 
is  so  very  distant,  for  Nahant  has  been  much  connected 
with  literature,  and  from  her  bold  headlands  she  has  watched 
"the  stately  ships  go  on  to  their  haven  under  the  hill"  from 
the  days  of  the  long,  low  boats  of  the  Vikings  to  the  huge 
steamships  throbbing  and  smoking  as  they  come  up  out  of 
the  ocean  or  start  forth  to  Europe.  A  rock-bound  peninsula 
of  singular  beauty  thrust  out  into  the  sea  between  Cape 
Cod  and  Cape  Ann,  the  home  from  the  early  part  of  the 
seventeenth  century  of  a  few  fishermen  and  farmers,  Nahant 
at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  began  to  draw 
from  Boston  people  who  sought  for  life  out  of  doors,  by  its 
fine  sea  air  and  by  the  chance  for  fishing  and  shooting.  In 
the  early  twenties  gentlemen  from  Boston  built  a  stone 
hotel  on  the  extreme  point  of  the  peninsula.  Cottages  fol- 
lowed, built  here  and  there  on  the  cliffs  and  headlands,  and 
the  place  was  fairly  launched  as  a  summer  resort.  It  be- 
came well  known,  sharing  with  Newport  the  distinction  of 
being  one  of  the  first  and  most  famous  of  New  England 
watering-places.  Willis,  and  later  Curtis,  described  it  in 
prose  and  Whittier  pictured  its  beauties  in  verse.  It  finds 
a  place  in  more  than  one  of  Longfellow's  poems,  for  he 
lived  there  always  in  summer;  and  Emerson  gave  it  a  stanza: 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES:  1850-1860  33 

'All  day  the  waves  assailed  the  rock, 
I  heard  the  church-bell  chime, 
The  sea-beat  scorns  the  minster  clock 
And  breaks  the  glass  of  time." 


Prescott  and  Agassiz  made  their  homes  at  Nahant  in  sum- 
mer, and  Motley  and  Sumner  came  there  every  year. 
Then  Mr.  Paran  Stevens,  forerunner  of  the  promoters  and 
combiners  of  a  later  day,  cast  his  eyes  upon  it  and  deter- 
mined that  he  could  make  it  a  great  watering-place  like 
Newport,  a  destiny  for  which  Nahant  was  too  small  and 
altogether  unsuited.  But  this  experiment  was  in  full  tide 
when  my  earliest  memory  begins.  The  picturesque  stone 
hotel  had  given  way  to  a  huge  wooden  barrack  containing 
hundreds  of  rooms,  ugly,  tasteless,  with  no  quality  but  size. 
A  telegraph  line  was  run  to  Lynn,  "hops,"  concerts,  and 
balls  were  of  frequent  occurrence,  and  various  attractions 
were  generously  furnished.  After  the  hotel  had  practically 
failed  and  was  on  the  eve  of  extinction,  in  1860,  an  imitator 
of  Blondin  named  John  Denver  came  to  Nahant,  and  I  re- 
member him  well  wheeling  a  man  over  a  tight-rope  stretched 
high  across  one  of  the  coves  which  indented  the  shore. 
There  was  at  the  outset,  however,  a  brief  period  of  gayety 
and  success,  the  hotel  was  full,  and  fashion  seemed  to  justify 
the  anticipation  of  Mr.  Stevens.  Its  fame  indeed  even 
travelled  across  the  ocean.  On  September  7,  1858,  Henry 
Greville  writes  in  his  diary :  "  An  amusing  letter  from  Fanny 
Kemble,  dated  Nahant,  U.  S.  (a  favorite  sea-bathing  place 
near  Boston),  received  to-day,  says:  'How  you  would  open 
your  eyes  and  stop  your  ears  if  you  were  here!  This  enor- 
mous house  is  filled  with  American  women,  one  prettier  than 
the  other,  who  look  like  fairies,  dress  like  duchesses  orfemmes 
entretenues,  behave  like  housemaids  and  scream  like  pea- 
cocks/ "  The  glimpse  through  English  eyes  is  not  flatter- 


34  EARLY  MEMORIES 

ing,  but  it  is  vivid  and  interesting,  perhaps  not  without 
value  even  now. 

So  far  as  my  own  knowledge  is  concerned  I  remember 
only  dimly  that  the  Olympians  of  the  family  used  to  go  to 
the  hotel  for  various  entertainments,  that  there  was  music, 
and  that  I  was  taken  there  once  to  see  Signor  Blitz  (why 
Signor?)  and  his  trained  canaries.  The  only  other  recollec- 
tion connected  with  the  hotel  in  its  brief  hour  of  splendor  is 
of  the  first  diplomatist  I  ever  saw.  I  have  met  many  since 
those  days,  some  most  interesting  men,  but  not  infrequently 
I  have  found  them,  especially  when  they  were  what  is  called 
"trained,"  quite  arid  and  unprofitable.  Lord  Napier,  min- 
ister from  England  to  the  United  States  in  1857,  was  very 
distinctly  of  the  former  and  most  interesting  class.  He 
brought  letters  to  my  father,  and  he  and  Lady  Napier  dined 
often  at  our  house  and  drove  with  my  mother.  A  boy  of 
seven  notes  not  at  all  the  appearance  of  persons  so  old  as 
to  be  friends  of  his  parents,  but  I  have  been  told  since  that 
Lady  Napier  was  both  charming  and  handsome.  An  old 
photograph  which  lies  before  me,  despite  its  imperfections, 
certainly  justifies  the  latter  adjective.  There  were  also 
two  Napier  boys,  who  made  a  far  stronger  impression  upon 
my  mind  than  did  their  parents.  I  remember  playing  and 
fraternizing  with  them  very  cheerfully,  although  I  had  a 
wholly  vague,  but  none  the  less  deep-rooted,  hostility  to 
England.  This  feeling  was  traditional  and  in  the  air,  but 
I  am  sure  that  I  derived  mine  from  my  father.  He  had 
been  in  England  several  times  when  a  young  man.  I  have 
his  passport,  issued  to  him  by  Governor  White,  of  Louisiana, 
the  father  of  my  friend,  the  present  chief  justice  of  the 
United  States.  My  father  then  lived  in  Louisiana,  where  he 
was  engaged  in  business,  but  the  governor  of  a  State  as  a 
source  for  passports  curiously  illustrates  the  alteration  in 
the  power  and  position  of  the  States  since  the  early  thirties. 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES:  1850-1860  35 

He  had  enjoyed  his  visits  to  England,  where  he  was  very 
kindly  welcomed  by  his  uncle  and  cousins,  and  I  never  heard 
him  speak  harshly  of  any  one  whom  he  met.  Nevertheless, 
he  resented  deeply  the  attitude  and  policy  of  England  toward 
this  country,  as  well  as  the  contemptuous  abuse  heaped  upon 
us  by  her  writers,  and  this  resentment  became  more  in- 
tense when  England's  feeling  toward  us  was  revealed  by  her 
conduct  at  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War.  But  although 
my  opinions  were  strong  and  sound  as  to  Great  Britain,  I 
played  cheerfully  and  contentedly  with  the  sons  of  the 
minister  and  found  them  excellent  companions. 

The  passing  glamour  of  the  big  hotel,  however,  was  only 
an  incident  in  the  first  summers  which  I  remember.  It 
was  Nahant  itself  that  I  cared  for.  Many,  many  years 
afterward  Senator  Hoar  said  of  me  and  to  me  in  a  speech  at 
Clark  University,  that  I  had  suffered  from  one  serious  mis- 
fortune— I  had  not  been  brought  up  in  the  country.  I  told 
him  after  the  speech-making  was  over  that  I  had  one  great 
compensation  in  being  brought  up  by  the  sea,  and  he  ad- 
mitted the  truth  of  what  I  said  as  a  fact  which  he  had  for- 
gotten. The  love  of  the  sea  which  a  child  acquires  who  has 
been  reared  at  its  very  edge  deepens  through  life,  and 
nothing  can  ever  replace  it.  I  played  upon  the  beaches  and 
climbed  about  among  the  rocks;  I  loved  the  sea  smiling 
and  beautiful  in  the  midsummer  heats,  and  I  loved  it  even 
more  in  the  great  gales  of  the  autumn,  when  the  huge  waves 
broke  over  the  cliffs  and  ledges,  filling  me  with  interest  and 
excitement  as  I  watched  them  by  the  hour  together. 

Nahant  not  only  meant  the  sea  and  summer  and  out-of- 
door  life,  but  there  was  no  school  there,  and,  instead  of 
lessons,  I  learned  to  swim  and  in  time  to  row  and  sail  a  boat, 
accomplishments  really  worth  having  and  one  of  the  rare 
portions  of  my  education  which  have  been  of  use  and  pleas- 
ure to  me  my  whole  life  through.  There  was,  too,  a  certain 


36  EARLY  MEMORIES 

enchantment  about  the  place — the  mystery  and  magic  of 
the  sea,  I  suppose — and  such  dreams  and  imaginings  as  I 
had  were  all  connected  with  Nahant  and  not  with  Boston. 
It  is  said  that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  once  declaring  that 
"every  child  hunted  for  buried  treasure,"  Henry  James  re- 
plied "that  he  never  had/'  to  which  Stevenson  made  the 
obvious  answer:  "Then  you  have  never  been  a  child."  I 
was  not  at  all  imaginative,  but  I  constructed  an  elaborate 
romance  of  treasure  hidden  at  Nahant.  Little  as  I  knew  it 
then,  I  was  in  a  region  peculiarly  adapted  for  such  dreams. 
Captain  Kidd  and  other  pirates  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  but  especially  Captain  Kidd,  are  popu- 
larly believed  to  have  buried  treasure  all  along  the  New  Eng- 
land coast.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  probably  concealed 
some  of  their  plunder  at  various  points,  for  little  deposits 
have  been  found  here  and  there.  The  belief,  however,  was 
magnificent  and  wide-spread,  even  if  the  treasure  was  small, 
scattered,  and  uncertain.  Not  far  from  where  I  lived,  al- 
though I  never  heard  of  it  until  much  later,  at  a  place  called 
Dungeon  Rock,  in  the  Lynn  Woods,  a  worthy  family,  under 
the  direction  of  mediums  and  spirits,  slowly  and  painfully, 
with  hammer  and  chisel,  drove  a  tunnel  into  the  solid  rock 
in  search  of  a  cave  where  an  Indian  princess,  an  Indian 
chief,  and  sundry  pirates  had  been  imprisoned  with  all 
their  treasures  by  a  landslide  or  earthquake,  of  which  geology, 
differing  with  the  spirits,  gave  no  indication.  The  work  of 
these  poor  people  afterward  became  an  attraction  to  sight- 
seers, and  they  earned  a  living  by  the  fees  they  received  for 
exhibiting  the  labors  of  their  wasted  lives. 

I  also  got  a  glimpse  of  the  Captain  Kidd  belief  many 
years  later.  One  summer  in  the  eighties  a  good-looking 
elderly  man  came  to  me  and  asked  permission  to  dig  on  my 
place  at  Nahant,  near  East  Point,  just  by  the  edge  of  the 
cliff.  He  said  that  the  spirits  had  told  him  precisely  where 


EARLIEST  MEMORIES:  1850-1860  37 

the  treasure  was  buried  in  large  pots  packed  in  a  great  chest. 
Mindful  of  my  own  early  visions,  I  gave  him  the  required 
permission,  but  after  his  excavation  had  reached  such  a 
size  that  it  began  to  threaten  serious  damage  I  told  him  to 
stop  and  sent  him  away.  He  went  obediently,  but  came 
back  at  night  secretly  and  dug  more  and  deeper,  enlarging 
the  hole  to  the  serious  distress  of  my  gardener,  and  naturally 
finding  nothing.  He  was  a  fine-looking,  sturdy  man  who 
had  worked  all  his  life  as  a  bridge-builder  and  contractor, 
and  his  hard-earned  savings  were  being  absorbed  by  crafty 
mediums  who  were  encouraging  him  in  his  search  for  buried 
treasure. 

I  have  strayed  far  from  my  own  early  imaginings, 
which  were  as  innocent  of  any  knowledge  of  Kidd  and 
seventeenth-century  buccaneers  as  they  were  of  spiritual 
manifestations  and  designing  mediums.  Mine  was  simply 
the  boy's  dream  of  buried  treasure.  I  made  up  my  mind 
that,  on  the  side  of  one  of  the  cliffs  near  the  house  where  I 
then  lived,  there  was  a  cave  which  had  been  closed  up  by  the 
fall  of  a  rock  suggested  by  a  long  crack  and  a  projecting  shelf. 
I  fixed  the  place  in  my  memory  by  slipping  there  one  day 
when  I  was  pounding  the  rock,  and  as  I  fell  I  brought  my 
teeth  sharply  together,  biting  clean  through  my  tongue,  an 
incident  as  real  as  my  cave  was  imaginary  and  a  good  deal 
more  painful.  But  although  I  made  no  impression  on  the 
hard  surface  of  the  rock,  I  pictured  the  cave  in  my 
mind  and  fitted  it  up  and  filled  it  with  treasure,  greatly  to 
my  own  satisfaction.  I  became  finally  so  pleased  with  my 
invention  that  I  confided  an  account  of  it  to  my  companion 
and  contemporary,  Sturgis  Bigelow,  who  has  reminded  me 
that  I  peopled  the  cave  not  with  every-day  pirates,  but  with 
the  leading  characters  in  the  "White  Chief,"  a  thrilling 
work  by  our  favorite  novelist,  Mayne  Reid.  Bigelow  was 
so  interested  that  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  I  had  seen 


38  EARLY  MEMORIES 

all  these  wonders,  and  I  produced  an  old  and  rusty  shot- 
gun which  I  had  found  in  the  garret  as  something  which  I 
had  brought  from  the  cave.  He  was  duly  impressed,  so 
much  so  indeed  that  he  told  his  father  and  then  informed 
me  that  his  father  said  that  there  was  no  such  cave  and  that 
the  gun  had  probably  belonged  to  my  grandfather.  What 
defence  I  made  I  do  not  remember,  but  this  unpleasant 
scepticism  not  only  impaired  my  reputation  for  truth,  but  also 
wrecked  my  own  belief,  and  I  do  not  recall  that  I  sought 
further  to  develop  my  cave,  which  was  a  loss  I  have  never 
ceased  to  deplore.  My  only  other  attempt  to  carry  out  my 
dreams  of  buried  treasure  had  an  equally  unfortunate  end- 
ing. Russell  Sullivan,  Russell  Gray,  and  I  and  one  or  two 
other  boys  put  some  of  our  hard-gotten  quarters  and  half- 
dollars  in  a  small  box  and  buried  it  deeply  in  a  sand-bank 
which  ran  along  the  edge  of  the  marshes  where  Arlington 
Street  now  is.  Then  from  time  to  time  we  would  go  secretly 
and  mysteriously  and  dig  up  the  box  and  examine  it.  The 
pleasure  of  this  performance  is  almost  as  hard  to  explain  as 
that  of  Stevenson's  "Lantern  Bearers,"  but  I  can  testify 
that  it  was  quite  as  real  and  quite  as  exciting.  One  sad  day, 
however,  we  found  that  our  box  had  been  broken  open  and 
rifled.  Sullivan  and  I,  quite  unjustly  I  think,  suspected 
one  of  our  fellow  treasure-hiders  and  treated  him  with 
marked  coolness.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  some  more 
practical  treasure-seeker  from  the  "South  Cove"  had  ob- 
served our  movements  and  had  profited  accordingly.  But 
in  any  event  this  melancholy  experience  terminated  my 
effort  to  acquire  or  to  pretend  to  acquire  buried  treasure. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860 

THESE  memories  of  my  first  ten  years  all  melt  together. 
I  cannot  pick  them  apart  and  date  them,  as  other  more 
fortunate  writers  of  reminiscences  seem  able  to  do.  I  can 
only  give  them  in  mass  as  they  arise  before  me  out  of  the 
dead  years.  But  some  of  the  figures  of  that  time  stand 
forth  very  clearly  before  my  mental  vision,  both  those 
who  made  my  little  world  and  those  whom  I  afterward 
knew  to  be  of  importance  in  the  larger  world  of  men 
and  whom  I  still  distinguish  salient  and  defined  despite 
the  uncertain  and  fluctuating  lights  of  one's  earlier  mem- 
ories. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  my  father,  who  was  so  much  to 
me  as  companion  and  friend.  In  the  little  home  world  my 
mother  filled  the  largest  place,  and  for  fifty  years  her  devo- 
tion, affection,  and  sympathy  never  failed  me.  She  was  a 
clever,  high-minded,  high-spirited  woman,  very  well  edu- 
cated according  to  the  standards  of  Boston  in  the  thirties, 
and  had  made  a  long  tour  with  her  family  through  Europe 
in  1837,  something  not  so  common  at  that  time  as  it  is  now. 
She  was  a  great  reader,  and  from  my  earliest  years  is  asso- 
ciated in  my  mind  with  reading  and  a  love  of  books.  It  was 
from  her  that  I  first  heard  of  Byron  and  Shelley.  She  was 
one  of  the  early  admirers  of  Browning  in  the  days  before 
his  popularity,  and  it  was  to  her  that  I  owe  my  first  acquaint- 


40  EARLY  MEMORIES 

ance  with  the  poet,  who  among  all  those  near  my  own  time 
or  contemporary  with  it,  during  a  long  period,  meant  most 
to  me.  My  only  sister  was  seven  years  older  than  I,  a  great 
gap  when  one  is  under  ten,  but  I  was  extremely  fond  of  her 
as  she  was  of  me.  I  looked  up  to  her,  of  course,  and  felt 
bitterly  at  times  her  very  natural  preference  for  older  so- 
ciety than  mine,  but  I  rejoiced  exceedingly  whenever  I  could 
be  with  her. 

Last  but  by  no  means  least  in  the  household  was  my 
grandfather,  Henry  Cabot,  for  whom  I  was  named.  He 
was  over  seventy  when  I  first  recall  him  clearly;  a  tall,  erect, 
very  fine-looking  man  who  gave  no  impression  of  age  or 
feebleness.  He  went  to  his  club  (the  old  Temple  Club) 
and  down-town  every  day,  although  he  had  no  business, 
having  long  since  retired  from  the  bar,  and  he  was  a  zealous 
theatre-goer.  When  not  at  the  theatre  he  was  always  at 
home  in  the  evenings  and  used  to  sit  up  very  late,  reading, 
as  I  was  told.  He  certainly  got  up  late  in  the  morning  and 
I  seldom  saw  him  without  a  book.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
he  knew  everybody  and  that  everybody  knew  him.  His 
friends  were  constantly  coming  to  see  him.  I  thought  at 
the  time  that  they  were  all  of  his  age,  which  I  regarded  as 
enormous.  I  learned  later  that  some  of  them  were  young 
men,  the  fact  being  that  he  was  a  very  agreeable  and  charm- 
ing man  who  attracted  both  young  and  old.  He  had,  as  I 
look  back  on  it,  most  perfect  manners,  and  left  the  reputa- 
tion of  an  excellent  talker,  although  of  that  I  could  not 
judge.  He  was  always  very  kind  to  me,  but  I  looked  up  to 
him  with  awe,  for  he  impressed  me  with  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion which  I  could  not  have  defined  then,  but  which  I  fully 
realize  now.  I  do  not  know  why  I  had  that  feeling  of  awe, 
because  he  was  always  most  gentle  in  his  manner,  and  as 
he  had  a  way,  if  I  asked  him  for  money,  of  pulling  out  a 
handful  of  change  and  letting  me  take  my  choice  among 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":   1850-1860  41 

the  coins  I  felt  a  peculiar  affection  for  a  person  addicted 
to  a  method  of  giving  quite  unexampled  in  my  experience. 
I  used  to  try  his  patience,  I  fear,  by  urging  him  to  tell  me 
how  he  hid  under  the  sideboard  and  watched  Washington 
at  breakfast  with  his  father  when  the  President  stopped  at 
my  great-grandfather 's  house  in  Beverly,  on  his  journey 
through  New  England  in  1789. 

Many  years  afterward  there  came  to  me  in  a  curious 
way  a  written  reminder  of  this  little  incident  which  had 
strangely  enough  escaped  destruction.  When  I  wrote  my 
memoir  of  George  Cabot  in  1876  I  went  carefully  through 
the  Washington  papers  in  the  State  Department  and  took 
copies  of  all  the  correspondence  between  Washington  and 
Mr.  Cabot.  I  did  not  find  anything  relating  to  the  Beverly 
visit,  nor  indeed  was  there  any  reason  why  I  should  have 
found  anything.  Some  fifteen  years  later  my  friend, 
William  Endicott,  then  in  the  Department  of  Justice,  was 
directed  to  examine  all  the  papers  in  the  archives  rela- 
ting to  the  acquisition  of  the  District  of  Columbia  and  the 
laying  out  of  the  city  of  Washington,  in  order  to  settle 
some  question  which  had  arisen  in  regard  to  the  title  to  the 
Potomac  flats.  There  was  an  immense  mass  of  papers, 
including  many  letters  from  Washington,  all  official  and  all 
relating  to  the  establishment  of  the  Federal  city.  Yet  in 
this  unlikely  company  Mr.  Endicott  discovered  my  great- 
grandfather's letter  inviting  Washington  to  stop  at  his 
house  in  Beverly.  Washington  preserved  everything  in 
the  way  of  correspondence,  but  how  this  little  note  from 
a  friend  had  strayed  into  such  a  collection  has  never  been 
explained.  I  will  give  it  here  because  it  is  connected  with 
my  story  and  also  because  it  seems  to  me  to  have  the 
pleasant  grace  of  the  elder  day  when  Horace  Walpole  was 
writing  letters  and  Gibbon  was  telling  the  story  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 


42  EARLY  MEMORIES 

BEVERLY, 
October  24,  1789. 

SIR:  The  public  papers  having  announced  "that  the  President 
of  the  United  States  is  on  his  way  to  Portsmouth  in  New  Hamp- 
shire," it  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  your  route  would  be 
through  this  milage,  and  that  you  might  find  it  convenient  to 
stop  here  and  take  a  little  rest:  should  this  prove  to  be  the 
case,  permit  me,  Sir,  to  hope  for  your  acceptance  of  such  accomoda- 
tion  and  refreshment  as  can  be  furnished  in  my  humble  dwelling, 
where  two  or  three  beds  would  be  at  your  disposal. 

I  am  fully  aware  that  by  indulging  this  hope  I  expose  myself 
to  the  imputation  of  vanity  as  well  as  ambition  and  therefore 
should  hardly  dare  to  have  my  conduct  tried  by  the  cool  maxims 
of  the  head  alone,  but  would  rather  refer  it  to  the  dictates  of  my 
heart,  which,  in  the  most  affecting  concerns  of  life,  I  believe  to  be 
a  sure  guide  to  what  is  right. 

I  have  the  honor,  Sir,  to  be  with  sentiments  of  the  most  pro- 
found respect  your  devoted  and  most  obedient  servant 

GEORGE  CABOT 
The  President  of  the  United  States 

I  have  always  liked  since  to  think,  as  I  have  recalled 
this  trifling  anecdote,  that  I  have  known  and  talked  with 
some  one  who  had  seen  Washington.  But  this  was  the  only 
incident  of  the  past  I  ever  extracted  from  my  grandfather. 
I  used  to  importune  him  to  tell  me  stories  of  the  distant 
time  when  he  was  a  boy  and  especially  all  about  his  father. 
I  remember  well  his  kindly  refusal  and  his  then  adding: 
"  My  boy,  we  do  not  talk  about  family  in  this  country.  It 
is  enough  for  you  to  know  that  your  grandfather  is  an 
honest  man."  It  is  a  regret  to  me  now  that  I  never  could 
get  more  from  him,  for  he  had  seen  much  of  the  world  and 
had  known  many  interesting  people.  He  entered  Harvard 
in  the  class  of  1800,  but  became  involved  in  one  of  the  ab- 
surd outbreaks  common  in  those  days  and  known  as  college 
rebellions,  and  did  not  graduate.  He  was  at  Cambridge 
long  enough,  however,  to  be  a  member  of  the  Porcellian 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860  43 

Club,  and  I  remember  how  glad  I  was  to  find  his  name  on 
the  list  when  I  became  a  member  of  the  club  myself,  more 
than  seventy  years  later.  Washington  Allston  was  in  the 
same  class,  and  my  grandfather  kept  up  his  friendship  with 
him  always. 

Mr.  Cabot  was  also  a  lifelong  friend  of  Daniel  Webster, 
personally  as  well  as  politically.  They  were  both  fond  of 
gun  and  rod,  and  I  have  a  long  letter  from  Webster  telling 
my  grandfather  about  a  day's  fishing  and  describing  the 
trout  he  had  caught,  which  is  I  think  worth  giving  here 
for  the  glimpse  that  it  affords  of  the  sport  of  many  years 
ago: 

SANDWICH,  June  4, 
Saturday  mor'g 
6  o'clock 

DEAR  SIR:  I  send  you  eight  or  nine  brook  trout,  which  I 
took  yesterday,  in  that  chief  of  all  brooks,  Mashpee.  I  made  a 
long  day  of  it,  and  with  good  success,  for  me.  John  was  with  me, 
full  of  good  advice,  but  did  not  fish — nor  carry  a  rod. 

I  took  26  trouts,  all  weighing 17  Ib  12  oz. 

The  largest  (you  have  him)  weighed  at  Crokers  .     .  2  "     4  " 

The  5  largest 3"     5  " 

The  eight  largest 11  "     8  " 

I  got  these  by  following  your  advice;  that  is,  by  careful  & 
thorough  fishing  of  the  difficult  places,  which  others  do  not  fish. 
The  brook  is  fished,  nearly  every  day.  I  entered  it,  not  so  high  up 
as  we  sometime  do,  between  7  &  8  o'clock,  &  at  12  was  hardly 
more  than  half  way  down  to  the  meeting-house  path.  You  see 
I  did  not  hurry.  The  day  did  not  hold  out  to  fish  the  whole 
brook  properly.  The  largest  trout  I  took  at  3  P.  M.  (you  see  I 
am  precise)  below  the  meeting-house,  under  a  bush  on  the  right 
bank,  two  or  three  rods  below  the  large  beeches.  It  is  singular, 
that  in  the  whole  day,  I  did  not  take  two  trouts  out  of  the  same 
hole.  I  found  both  ends,  or  parts  of  the  Brook  about  equally 
productive.  Small  fish  not  plenty,  in  either.  So  many  hooks 


44  EARLY  MEMORIES 

get  everything  which  is  not  hid  away  in  the  manner  large  trouts 
take  care  of  themselves.  I  hooked  one,  which  I  suppose  to  be 
larger  than  any  which  I  took,  as  he  broke  my  line,  by  fair  pulling, 
after  I  had  pulled  him  out  of  his  den,  &  was  playing  him  in  fair 
open  water. 

Of  what  I  send  you,  I  pray  you  keep  what  you  wish  yourself, 
send  three  to  Mr.  Ticknor,  &  three  to  Dr.  Warren;  or  two  of  the 
larger  ones,  to  each  will  perhaps  be  enough — &  if  there  be  any 
left,  there  is  Mr.  Callender  &  Mr.  Blake,  &  Mr.  Davis,  either  of 
them  not  "averse  to  fish."  Pray  let  Mr.  Davis  see  them — es- 
pecially the  large  one — As  he  promised  to  come,  &  fell  back,  I 
desire  to  excite  his  regrets.  I  hope  you  will  have  the  large  one 
on  your  own  table. 

The  day  was  fine — not  another  hook  in  the  Brook.  John 
steady  as  a  judge — and  everything  else  exactly  right.  I  never, 
on  the  whole,  had  so  agreeable  a  day's  fishing  tho'  the  result, 
in  pounds  or  numbers,  is  not  great; — nor  ever  expect  such  an- 
other. 

Please  preserve  this  letter;  but  rehearse  not  these  particulars 
to  the  uninitiated. 

I  think  the  Limerick  not  the  best  hook.  Whether  it  pricks  too 
soon,  or  for  what  other  reason,  I  found  or  thought  I  found  the  fish 
more  likely  to  let  go  his  hold,  from  this,  than  from  the  old  fashioned 
hook.  Yrs. 

D.  WEBSTER. 
H.  CABOT,  Esq. 

I  cannot  close  these  imperfect  recollections  of  my  grand- 
father without  a  word  as  to  his  only  sister,  Elizabeth,  the 
widow  of  Doctor  Kirkland,  sometime  president  of  Harvard 
College.  She  died  in  1852,  so  that  I  have  no  memory  of  her, 
but  she  was  a  remarkable  woman — clever,  given,  I  fear,  to 
speaking  sharply,  with  more  attention  sometimes  to  wit  than 
to  the  feeling  of  others,  possessed  of  great  strength  of  char- 
acter and  entire  courage  both  in  conduct  and  opinion.  She 
married  Doctor  Kirkland  after  her  father's  death,  and  when 
her  husband  resigned  the  presidency  of  the  college  they  went 
abroad  in  1829.  They  travelled  widely,  going  to  Syria  and 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860  45 

Egypt,  where  she  was  the  first  of  American  women  certainly 
to  ascend  the  Great  Pyramid.  They  saw  many  interesting 
people;  I  have  letters  to  them  from  Lord  Jeffrey,  Lord  Hol- 
land, James  Martineau,  and  others  in  England.  Some  years 
since  I  published  a  selection  from  Mrs.  Kirkland's  letters  in 
the  "Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society." 
They  give  an  interesting  picture  of  travel  in  Europe  in  1829  - 
31.  Childless  herself,  she  centred  her  love  and  hopes 
upon  my  uncle,  George  Cabot,  and  when  he  died,  in  1850, 
she  transferred  her  affection,  at  once  intense  and  concen- 
trated, to  me.  I  was  taken  every  day  to  see  her  hi  her 
apartments  in  Summer  Street,  not  far  from  where  we  lived, 
and  I  have  been  told  that  I  returned  her  affection  as  strongly 
as  was  possible  for  a  little  child.  When  she  came  to  die  she 
ordered  every  one  to  leave  the  room,  as  she  said  that  she 
wished  to  die  alone.  I  could  not  be  persuaded  to  pass  the 
house  afterwards  until  I  was  permitted  to  go  through  her 
rooms  and  satisfy  myself  that  she  was  gone  away,  "all 
gone,"  as  I  then  expressed  it.  Mrs.  Kirkland  is  not  even 
a  dim  memory  to  me  now,  but  as  I  recall  those  early  days 
I  cannot  pass  by  in  silence  one  who  gave  to  me  at  the  dawn 
of  life  so  much  love  and  care. 

Among  the  people  who  were  constantly  at  the  house  I 
well  remember  Charles  Sumner.  He  was  the  friend  of  my 
grandfather  and  of  my  father,  too.  He  came  frequently  to 
dinner  when  he  was  at  home  and  passed  several  weeks  with 
us  always  at  Nahant,  a  habit  which  he  maintained  until  his 
death.  But  in  those  first  ten  years  he  is  only  a  figure  in 
memory — tall,  solemn,  impressive,  and  looked  at  by  me 
with  distant  awe.  He  is  vivid  to  me  in  that  period  upon 
only  one  occasion,  and  then  he  stands  out  on  the  back- 
ground of  memory  very  sharply  indeed.  It  was  not  long 
after  Preston  Brooks's  attack  upon  him  in  the  Senate  cham- 
ber. Brooks,  as  is  well  known,  came  up  to  Sumner  sitting 


46  EARLY  MEMORIES 

at  his  desk,  with  his  knees  under  it,  and  beat  him  over  the 
head  with  a  loaded  cane,  while  other  Southerners  stood  about 
ready  to  prevent  interference.  Sumner  struggled  to  his 
feet,  tearing  the  desk  from  its  fastenings,  tried  to  seize  his 
assailant,  and  fell  senseless.  The  brutality  of  the  deed  was 
only  equalled  by  its  thorough  cowardice.  To  come  sud- 
denly upon  a  defenceless  man  and  beat  him  over  the  head 
with  a  loaded  cane  while  friends  stand  about  to  prevent 
interference  requires  a  courage  about  on  a  level  with  that 
displayed  by  a  boy  who  tears  off  the  legs  and  wings  of  a  fly. 
Yet  this  performance  was  lauded  throughout  the  South  as 
not  only  proper  but  gallant.  The  South  was  full  of  brave 
men,  but  slavery  had  so  perverted  them  that  they  could 
applaud  this  cowardly  and  savage  deed. 

In  the  North  the  assault  excited  deep  indignation. 
Anson  Burlingame,  then  a  member  of  Congress  from  Massa- 
chusetts, one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  the  younger  leaders  in 
the  anti-slavery  movement,  conspicuous  alike  for  courage 
and  eloquence,  denounced  the  deed  of  Brooks  in  fitting  lan- 
guage. Speaking  in  the  House  of  Representatives  on  June 
21,  1856,  he  said: 

"...  Sir,  the  act  was  brief,  and  my  comments  on  it 
shall  be  brief  also.  I  denounce  it  in  the  name  of  the  Con- 
stitution it  violated.  I  denounce  it  in  the  name  of  the  sov- 
ereignty of  Massachusetts,  which  was  stricken  down  by  the 
blow.  I  denounce  it  in  the  name  of  civilization  which  it 
outraged.  I  denounce  it  in  the  name  of  humanity.  I  de- 
nounce it  in  the  name  of  that  fair  play  which  bullies  and 
prize-fighters  respect.  What!  strike  a  man  when  he  is 
pinioned — when  he  cannot  respond  to  a  blow!  Call  you 
that  chivalry?  In  what  code  of  honor  did  you  get  your 
authority  for  that?" 

Thereupon  Brooks,  who  was  also  a  member  of  the  House, 
challenged  him.  Burlingame  accepted  the  challenge,  named 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860  47 

rifles  as  the  weapons,  and  an  island  in  the  Niagara  River 
outside  the  jurisdiction  of  the  United  States  as  the  place  of 
meeting.  Brooks,  who  apparently  had  no  love  for  arms  of 
precision  or  an  undisturbed  meeting,  declined,  alleging  that 
he  could  not  pass  safely  through  the  Northern  States.  This 
refusal  was  as  characteristic  as  the  assault.  He  died  not 
long  afterwards.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that 
Brooks  achieved  the  success  which  he  no  doubt  sought,  for 
he  secured  a  place  in  history  just  as  Ravaillac  and  Felton 
and  Bellingham  had  done  before,  and  as  Wilkes  Booth  did 
not  long  afterwards.  A  place  in  history  indeed  is  always 
to  be  had  if  a  man  will  go  deep  enough  into  infamy.  In  this 
way  Brooks  remains,  "a  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered 
name."  His  assault  upon  Sumner  roused  the  fighting 
spirit  of  the  North,  and  was  one  of  the  potent  causes  of  the 
war,  so  that  the  South  had  good  cause  to  rue  the  hunting 
of  that  day. 

My  friend,  Mr.  J.  M.  Cochran,  of  Southbridge  (Massa- 
chusetts), with  whom  I  had  the  pleasure  of  serving  in  the 
legislature  in  1880 — my  first  session — has  kindly  sent  me 
the  following  verses,  which  will  illustrate  the  feeling  of 
the  North  at  that  moment.  I  find  that  curiously  enough 
they  were  written  by  William  Cullen  Bryant,  and  are 
given  with  four  others  in  Godwin's  Life. 

"To  Canada  Brooks  was  asked  to  go 
To  waste  of  powder  a  pound  or  so, 
He  sighed,  as  he  answered,  '  No;  No;  No; 
They  might  take  my  life  on  the  way,  you  know, 
For  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid, 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid.' 

"  *  Beyond  New  York  in  every  car 
They  keep  a  supply  of  feathers  and  tar, 
And  they  put  them  on  with  an  iron  bar, 
I  should  be  smothered  before  I  got  far, 
And  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid, — 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid.'  " 


48  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Very  characteristic  was  Sumner's  revenge,  which  he  took 
first  in  the  midst  of  the  war  and  again  years  afterwards  when 
the  cause  in  which  he  had  suffered  and  to  which  he  had 
given  his  life  was  triumphant,  when  slavery  had  perished  and 
the  South  was  beaten  and  crushed.  On  May  8,  1862,  he 
offered  a  resolution  declaring  it  inexpedient  to  place  upon  the 
regimental  flags  the  names  of  victories  won  over  our  fellow 
citizens.  Three  years  later  he  opposed  placing  in  the  Cap- 
itol "  any  picture  of  a  victory  in  battle  with  our  own  fellow 
citizens."  In  1873  he  introduced  a  resolution  to  remove  the 
names  of  battles  with  our  fellow  citizens  from  the  Army 
Register  and  the  regimental  flags.  He  wished,  he  said,  to 
obliterate  all  trophies  and  monuments  of  civil  war.  He  was 
far  ahead  of  his  time.  The  bitterness  of  the  strife  was  still 
undiminished,  and  his  own  legislature  in  Massachusetts  cen- 
sured his  action.  But,  looking  into  the  future,  Sumner  had 
as  little  sympathy  with  the  hatreds  bred  by  the  war  as 
he  would  feel  to-day  with  the  false  sentimentality  which 
would  have  the  government  at  its  own  expense  erect  monu- 
ments to  the  men  who  tried  to  destroy  it,  and  draw  no 
distinction  between  those  who  saved  the  Union  and  those 
who  fought  to  tear  it  asunder.  When  he  died  a  distin- 
guished Southerner,  Mr.  Justice  Lamar,  eulogized  him  in  a 
speech  that  startled  the  country,  which  then  learned  from 
the  lips  of  a  former  foe  what  generosity  of  soul  and  largeness 
of  mind  had  been  shown  by  the  victim  of  Brooks's  brutality 
when  he  stood  forward  first  of  all  to  plead  for  a  true  recon- 
ciliation between  the  people  of  the  States  so  recently  at  war. 

Of  all  the  details  of  the  Brooks  assault  and  of  its  deep 
significance  I  knew  nothing  at  the  time.  My  memory  is 
merely  that  one  afternoon  my  father  took  me  to  the  State 
House,  to  the  point  which  was  then  the  corner  of  Mount 
Vernon  and  Beacon  Streets.  He  lifted  me  up  and  placed 
me  on  the  coping  of  the  terrace  wall  so  that  I  could  look 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860  49 

over  the  heads  of  those  about  us.  Thence  I  saw  a  crowd 
stretching  far  away  and  filling  the  streets  in  every  direction. 
Presently  an  open  carriage  drove  up  with  some  gentlemen 
seated  in  it  and  stopped  near  the  spot  where  I  was  placed. 
Then  a  tall  man,  who  I  knew  was  Mr.  Sumner;  stood  up  in 
the  carriage,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  a  shout  rose  from  that 
crowd  the  like  of  which  I  have  never  heard  since,  and  I  have 
heard,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  many  crowds,  and  some  mobs, 
cheer  and  yell.  Then  memory  drops  the  curtain  and  I  re- 
member no  more.  In  after-years  I  spoke  of  this  recollection 
many  times,  both  to  my  family  and  to  others,  but  nobody 
seemed  to  recall  the  incident,  and  I  began  to  think  that  it 
was  all  a  trick  of  memory,  which  is  so  fond  of  tricks.  At 
last  Mr.  Pierce's  biography  appeared,  and  there  at  the 
proper  point  appeared  an  account  of  the  scene  which  I  re- 
membered. Years  afterwards  I  found  among  my  mother's 
papers  a  copy  of  the  Boston  Atlas  for  Tuesday,  November  4, 
1856.  In  that  veracious  chronicle  I  read  that  Mr.  Sumner 
had  passed  the  previous  Sunday  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Law- 
rence in  Brookline.  The  next  day  he  drove  to  the  Roxbury 
line,  where  he  was  received  by  the  mayor  and  Mr.  Quincy. 
There  the  procession  was  formed  and  marched  to  the  State 
House.  Then  the  reporter  continues:  "The  scene  at  the 
State  House  was  beyond  description.  The  area  in  front, 
the  long  range  of  steps  leading  to  the  capitol,  the  capitol 
itself,  the  streets  in  the  vicinity,  the  houses,  even  to  the 
roofs,  were  packed  with  human  beings.  The  assembled 
thousands  greeted  him  with  long-continued  cheering."  Of 
what  followed,  according  to  the  newspaper,  such  as  a  speech 
by  the  governor  and  the  like  suitable  performances,  I  re- 
member nothing.  But  I  can  still  see  the  tall  figure  stand- 
ing up  in  the  carriage;  I  can  still  hear  the  shout  of  the  crowd, 
and  I  know  now  why  that  cheering,  as  the  Atlas  called  it, 
branded  itself  on  my  young  memory.  It  was  the  note  of 
fierceness  in  it,  of  deep-seated  anger,  the  cry  for  vengeance 


50  EARLY  MEMORIES 

of  a  people  who  had  been  insulted,  outraged,  and  wronged. 
It  would  have  been  well  for  the  South  if  that  scene  and 
sound  had  made  the  same  impression  upon  the  Southern 
people  which  it  made  upon  the  boy  of  six,  although  I 
fear  that  they  would  have  understood  it  as  little  as  I  did. 
Yet  it  might  conceivably  have  caused  them  to  think,  a  use- 
ful exercise  in  which  they  did  not  much  indulge  during 
those  bitter  days. 

Some  time  afterwards — it  must  have  been  in  1859  or 
1860,  because  the  scene  was  not  in  Winthrop  Place  but  in 
our  new  house  on  Beacon  Street — Mr.  Sumner,  who  had 
been  in  Europe,  came,  as  was  his  habit,  to  dine  with  us. 
In  the  middle  of  the  dinner  he  arose  from  his  chair  and 
stretched  himself  upon  the  sofa  because  the  pain  in  his  back 
was  so  severe  that  he  could  not  sit  up  longer  without  rest- 
ing himself.  He  never  fully  recovered,  I  think,  from  the 
effects  of  the  assault,  for  the  spine  was  more  or  less  per- 
manently affected. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  my  first  impressions  of  politics 
were  tragic,  and  I  imbibed  in  this  way  an  intense  hatred  of 
slavery,  which  I  connected  with  Southerners  and  Demo- 
crats. The  details  were  misty  and  the  reasoning  vague, 
but  the  sentiment  was  vigorous  and  the  general  result  fairly 
accurate. 

Another  figure  that  I  recall  in  the  Winthrop  Place  days 
was  Rufus  Choate,  sometime  Whig  Senator  from  Massa- 
chusetts, always  a  great  lawyer  and  advocate,  a  speaker 
of  remarkable  originality  and  compelling  eloquence,  a  real 
scholar,  and  a  man  of  exceptional  brilliancy  and  charm.  He 
lived  near  us  in  Winthrop  Place,  and  one  evening  in  early 
summer,  when  my  bedtime  was  drawing  on,  the  maid  said 
to  me,  as  we  sat  by  the  window:  "  There  is  Mr.  Choate."  I 
looked  and  saw  a  tall  man  with  black  hair  and  dark,  deep- 
set  eyes  stroll  slowly  by,  his  hat  pushed  back  and  his  coat- 
sleeves  drawn  up  as  if  for  coolness.  That  is  all,  and  as  it 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860  51 

stands  it  is  not  a  very  interesting  contribution  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  Mr.  Choate,  and  yet  that  his  figure  should  be  vivid 
to  me  across  all  these  years,  that  a  single  glimpse  of  him 
should  have  left  such  a  lasting  picture  on  a  child's  mind, 
shows,  I  think,  what  striking  qualities  the  man  must  have 
had,  so  impalpable  and  yet  so  powerful  that,  piercing  the 
vesture  of  decay,  they  fastened  themselves  indelibly  upon 
the  memory  of  a  little  boy.  I  do  not  remember  ever  seeing 
Mr.  Choate  again,  and  this  one  vision  of  him  must  have 
been  shortly  before  his  death,  as  he  died  prematurely  in 
1859.  It  is  rather  odd  that  I  do  not  recall  him  on  other 
occasions,  for  my  father  greatly  admired  Mr.  Choate,  and 
we  all  knew  the  family  well.  A  cousin  of  mine  much  older 
than  I  married  one  of  Mr.  Choate's  daughters,  and  in  after- 
years,  through  which  their  friendship  has  been  one  of  my 
best  possessions,  I  have  seen  in  her  and  in  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Bell,  the  charm,  the  cleverness,  the  brilliancy  and  the  un- 
ending humor  for  which  Mr.  Choate  was  famous. 

Mr.  Choate's  power  with  juries  was  universally  known 
in  his  lifetime,  but  this  side  of  a  great  lawyer's  career  is  un- 
fortunately evanescent,  like  the  glories  of  celebrated  actors, 
which  of  necessity  rest  only  upon  tradition  and  upon  what 
was  written  about  them  by  their  contemporaries.  I  was, 
of  course,  born  too  late  to  have  seen  Mr.  Choate  before  a 
jury  or  to  have  heard  him  speak  in  public,  but  his  reputa- 
tion was  still  all-pervading  at  the  bar  when  I  studied  law, 
and  from  the  lawyers  of  that  day  and  from  his  memoirs  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion,  after  comparison  with  the 
accounts  of  other  great  lawyers,  that  he  ranks  with  Erskine 
and  advocates  of  that  class,  and  that  he  has  never  been  sur- 
passed before  a  jury  except  by  Webster  in  the  single  speech 
at  the  White  murder  trial.  Mr.  Choate  left  behind  him  not 
only  this  great  reputation,  but  also  countless  anecdotes  of  his 
wit  and  humor  and  picturesque  habit  of  speech.  These,  for 


52  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  most  part,  have  been  published,  but  there  are  one  or 
two  of  the  many  I  have  heard  which  I  think  are  not  in 
print,  and  are  certainly  not  well  known. 

There  was  a  story  famous  in  its  day,  and  given  in  his 
"Life"  by  Mr.  Brown,  of  Mr.  Choate  cross-examining  a 
man  who  had  turned  state's  evidence  against  his  companions, 
who  were  charged  with  murder  on  the  high  seas  and  whom 
Mr.  Choate  was  defending.  This  man  was  the  most  im- 
portant witness  for  the  government,  and  Mr.  Choate  drew 
out  of  him  the  story  of  how  the  murder  was  planned  and 
then  asked:  "How  did  they  induce  you  to  join?"  "Why," 
said  the  witness,  "they  told  me  that  we  should  be  all  right 
because,  even  if  we  were  caught,  there  was  a  man  in  Boston 
named  Choate  who  would  get  us  off  if  we  were  found  with 
the  money  in  our  boots."  There  was  a  roar  of  laughter  in 
the  court-room,  and  at  this  point  the  story  always  stopped. 
An  eye-witness  told  me  that  Mr.  Choate  waited,  perfectly 
undisturbed,  until  the  laugh  had  subsided,  then  proceeded, 
and  working  on  the  reply  just  made,  broke  the  witness 
down  and  greatly  impaired  the  weight  of  his  testimony.  In 
fact,  I  believe  that  he  secured  the  acquittal  of  his  clients. 

Another  story  which  was  always  a  favorite  of  mine,  be- 
cause the  touch  was  so  light,  was  that  relating  to  a  client  in 
a  great  patent  suit.  After  the  junior  counsel  had  thoroughly 
prepared  the  case  he  took  the  client,  who  wished  to  state  his 
case  to  Mr.  Choate  personally,  to  see  the  senior  counsel. 
The  client  began:  "Of  course,  Mr.  Choate,  you  understand 
the  principle  of  the  Jacquard  loom?"  "Certainly,"  said 
Mr.  Choate,  who  had  never  heard  of  the  loom  before;  "of 
course,  of  course.  But  assume,  for  the  moment,  that  I  do 
not  understand  the  principle  of  the  Jacquard  loom  and 
expound  it  to  me  as  a  preliminary." 

There  is  one  more  story,  and  it  shall  be  the  last,  which 
I  am  sure  has  never  been  printed  and  which  I  heard  in  a 


THE   "  OLYMPIANS ":   1850-1860  53 

curious  way.  When  I  was  in  Congress,  General  Butler, 
whom  I  had  fought  for  years  politically  and  whom  I  had 
never  met,  came  one  morning  into  the  House.  I  happened 
to  be  passing  near  where  he  was  standing,  and  Mr.  S.  S. 
Cox,  of  New  York,  stopped  me  and  introduced  me  to  him. 
After  a  few  words  General  Butler  asked  us  to  come  over  to 
his  house,  which  was  near  the  Capitol  and  is  now  the  office 
of  the  Coast  Survey,  and  lunch  with  him.  We  had  a  very 
pleasant  luncheon,  but  the  one  thing  in  the  conversation 
which  I  remember  was  this  story  of  Choate.  It  was  apro- 
pos of  a  certain  claimant  who  just  then  had  a  bill  before 
Congress  to  pay  him  for  some  improvement  in  rifles  which 
he  had  made  at  the  time  of  the  war.  "He  was  always  in- 
venting things, "  said  General  Butler.  "When  he  was  a 
young  man  he  invented  some  baking  machinery  and  set  up 
a  factory  equipped  with  it  in  New  Hampshire.  The  inven- 
tion wasn't  worth  a  damn,  and  the  concern  failed,  and,  of 
course  [I  liked  General  Butler's  'of  course'  at  this  point], 
it  burned  down.  The  insurance  companies  refused  to  pay, 
and  the  claimant  retained  Mr.  Choate  and  me  to  sue  them. 
I  took  charge  of  the  case,  but  the  claimant  insisted  on  see- 
ing Mr.  Choate,  and  so  one  day  I  took  him  to  Mr.  Choate's 
office  and  the  claimant  told  his  story.  When  he  had  gone 
I  said  to  Mr.  Choate:  'What  a  liar  our  client  is.'  Mr. 
Choate,  looking  at  me  with  his  melancholy  eyes,  replied :  '  I 
would  not  say  that,  Mr.  Butler;  call  him  an  inventor 
rather.' '  I  have  again  wandered  far  from  my  early  days, 
but  Mr.  Choate  is  always  a  temptation  whenever  one  speaks 
or  writes  of  him,  and  his  early  death  prevented  my  ever 
knowing  him  after  I  had  grown  up. 

With  Mr.  Motley  (the  historian)  the  case  is  different. 
He  stands  out  very  distinctly  among  my  earliest  memories, 
and  I  came  to  know  him  very  well  in  later  years.  He  and 
Mrs.  Motley  were  intimate  friends  of  my  grandfather  and 


54  EARLY  MEMORIES 

of  my  father  and  mother.  I  used  to  call  them  "uncle"  and 
"aunt,"  although  there  was  no  relationship,  and  when  they 
were  not  in  Europe  they,  with  their  daughters,  used  to  pass 
several  weeks  with  us  every  summer  at  Nahant.  Mrs. 
Motley  was  a  very  handsome  woman,  strong  in  her  affec- 
tions and  her  dislikes,  enthusiastic,  earnest,  and  full  of 
charm  and  fascination.  I  know  that  she  charmed  a  small 
boy  who  became  very  fond  of  her,  and  years  only  served  to 
confirm  the  boy's  opinion.  Mr.  Motley  I  used  to  look  at 
in  those  days  with  round  eyes  and  loved  to  hear  him  talk, 
although  naturally  I  did  not  understand  very  well  all  that 
he  said;  but  he  was  so  handsome,  so  spirited,  with  such  an 
exciting  and  inspiring  manner,  that  he  compelled  the  vagrant 
attention  even  of  a  boy  to  whom  the  "Dutch  Republic"  and 
the  "Beggars  of  the  Sea"  then  first  appeared  above  the 
mental  horizon. 

Mr.  Longfellow  lived  at  Nahant  and  I  saw  him  from 
earliest  boyhood,  but  for  some  reason  not  explicable  now  he 
did  not  become  real  to  me,  although  I  knew  many  of  his 
poems,  until  much  later.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Agassiz 
is  one  of  my  earliest  and  strongest  remembrances.  This 
was  the  case  partly,  I  suppose,  because  Mrs.  Agassiz  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  my  mother,  partly  because  my  sister 
went  to  Mr.  Agassiz's  school  in  Cambridge,  but  chiefly,  I 
think,  because  whenever  a  strange  fish  was  caught  off  our 
shores  my  father  always  said  that  he  was  going  to  show  it 
to  Mr.  Agassiz,  who  would  know  all  about  it.  This  struck 
me  as  an  evidence  of  surprising  wisdom,  as  indeed  it  was, 
although  I  did  not  know  that  it  implied  that  the  question 
was  to  be  asked  of  the  greatest  living  authority  on  fishes, 
past  or  present.  Moreover,  Mr.  Agassiz  was  a  man  who 
impressed  a  boy  just  as  he  did  every  one  who  came  in  con- 
tact with  him.  His  fluent  English  with  the  marked  French 
accent,  quite  strange  to  a  child;  the  atmosphere  of  strength, 


THE  "OLYMPIANS":  1850-1860  55 

both  physical  and  mental,  which  seemed  to  pervade  him; 
the  large,  genial,  kindly  presence,  the  sense  of  power;  all 
alike  were  at  once  imposing  and  reassuring,  leaving  a  mark 
on  the  young  memory  not  to  be  effaced. 

I  cannot  recall  the  time  when  Benjamin  Peirce,  the 
eminent  mathematician  and  a  professor  at  Cambridge,  was 
not  at  once  familiar  and  impressive  to  me.  Mrs.  Peirce 
was  a  cousin  of  my  mother  and  the  "Professor"  was  con- 
stantly at  our  house.  His  successful  criticism  of  Leverrier's 
computations  of  the  variations  of  Uranus  and  his  discovery 
of  the  fluidity  of  Saturn's  rings  had  already  made  him 
famous  and  laid  the  foundation  of  that  international  repu- 
tation to  which  the  long  list  of  honors  conferred  upon  him 
by  foreign  societies,  as  duly  set  forth  in  the  Harvard  cata- 
logue, bears  imposing  witness.  Of  all  this  I  knew  nothing 
then,  and  the  names  of  his  mathematical  achievements  are 
all  that  I  have  learned  since.  But  he  made  a  profound  im- 
pression on  my  imagination.  I  heard  him  spoken  of  always 
with  admiration,  and  I  gathered  that  he  was  a  man  of  vast 
and  mysterious  knowledge,  not  understood  by  most  people, 
which  was  true  enough,  but  the  effect  on  my  mind  was  to 
make  me  regard  him  as  a  species  of  necromancer  or  magician. 
His  appearance  fostered  the  idea.  He  wore  his  black  hair 
very  long,  after  the  fashion  of  his  youth.  He  had  a  noble 
leonine  head  and  dark,  deep-set  eyes.  His  voice  possessed 
a  peculiar  quality.  It  was  without  any  metallic  or  ringing 
note,  but  as  if  slightly  veiled,  and  very  attractive  for  some 
reason  which  I  have  never  clearly  defined.  Altogether  he 
a  fascination  which  even  a  child  felt,  and  all  the  more 
jcause  he  was  full  of  humor,  with  an  abounding  love  of 
lonsense,  one  of  the  best  of  human  possessions  in  this  vale  of 
iars.  I  know  that  I  was  always  delighted  to  see  him,  be- 
tuse  he  was  so  gentle,  so  kind,  so  full  of  jokes  with  me,  and 
"so  funny."  As  time  went  on  I  came  as  a  man  to  know 


56  EARLY  MEMORIES 

him  well  and  to  value  him  more  justly,  but  the  love  of  the 
child,  and  the  sense  of  fascination  which  the  child  felt,  only 
grew  with  the  years. 

Among  the  companions  of  my  uncle,  George  Cabot,  at 
the  Latin  School,  was  John  Fitzpatrick,  who  became  greatly 
attached  to  my  uncle  and  kept  up  his  friendship  with  our 
family  after  the  latter's  early  death.  Fitzpatrick  rose  to 
be  Bishop  of  Boston,  which  was  far  from  being  then  the 
Irish  and  Catholic  city  it  has  since  become.  He  was  known 
to  every  one  as  "Bishop  John/7  and  was  a  most  excellent 
man,  very  popular,  and  greatly  beloved.  He  came  a  great 
deal  to  our  house,  especially  in  summer,  for  there  was  no 
Roman  Catholic  church  at  Nahant  then,  and  he  or  Father, 
afterwards  Bishop,  Healey  used  to  celebrate  an  early  Mass 
in  our  "Union"  church  which  had  never  been  consecrated 
and  of  which  my  father  was  warden  and  treasurer.  "  Bishop 
John"  was  not  only  very  kind  to  me,  but  the  best  of  com- 
panions, genial,  affectionate,  and  sympathetic.  He  had  a 
high  regard  for  my  father,  who  used  to  help  him  very  lib- 
erally with  his  poor  people,  and  was  especially  generous  to 
the  orphan  asylum,  for  whose  head,  Sister  Ann  Alexis,  my 
father  had  deep  admiration. 

Yet  another  whom  I  remember  well  at  that  time  was  Doc- 
tor Henry  Bigelow,  the  father  of  my  friend,  Sturgis  Bigelow. 
He  belonged,  in  common  with  my  own  parents  and  all  those 
of  my  friends  generally,  to  what  Mr.  Kenneth  Grahame  has 
so  happily  called  the  "Olympians,"  the  grown-up  persons 
who  wield  a  despotic,  unquestioned,  and  apparently  un- 
reasoning authority  over  the  destinies  of  small  boys.  But  I 
distinguished  him  as  different  from  the  others,  not  merely 
because  I  heard  my  father  speak  of  him  with  admiration,  but 
because  of  the  personal  impression  he  made  upon  me.  He 
was  an  ardent  sportsman,  and  his  house  was  full  of  dogs  and 
guns  and  firearms  of  all  descriptions,  which  were,  of  course, 


THE   "OLYMPIANS":   1850-1860 


57 


irresistibly  alluring  to  any  properly  constituted  boy.  But 
there  was  something  about  the  man  himself  which  makes  him 
stand  out  in  the  past  as  I  try  to  revive  the  boyish  recollec- 
tions. I  think  it  was  mainly  his  extraordinary  clearness  of 
statement,  the  feeling  of  finality  in  all  he  said,  qualities 
which  always  give  a  sense  of  power  and  mastery.  I  knew  of 
course  that  he  was  a  doctor.  I  did  not  know  that  he  was 
the  greatest  surgeon  of  the  day  in  our  country.  Still  less  did 
I  know,  what  many,  many  years  after  I  was  to  learn,  that 
by  his  introduction  of  the  system  of  reducing  dislocations  of 
the  hip  by  manipulation  and  by  his  revolution,  then  in  the 
distant  future,  in  the  operation  of  lithotrity,  he  was  to  re- 
lieve an  incalculable  amount  of  human  suffering.  I  say  that 
I  came  to  know  these  facts,  but  they  are  not  generally  known 
even  by  the  people  who  have  profited  by  them.  The  dis- 
tinguished physicians  and  surgeons,  who  by  their  discoveries 
and  their  self-sacrifice  have  done  more  than  all  others  to 
mitigate  the  physical  miseries  of  humanity,  are  less  recog- 
nized and  remembered,  I  have  often  thought,  than  any 
other  benefactors  of  the  race.  Their  names  may  have  an 
unpleasant  association  with  a  disease  or  an  operation,  but 
they  themselves  pass  out  of  sight,  although  the  lives  they 
led  and  the  work  they  did,  and  their  observation  of  human 
nature,  are  more  interesting  than  those  of  many  of  the  men 
about  whom  volumes  have  been  written.  In  Doctor  Bige- 
low,  whom  I  knew  well  and  saw  constantly  until  his  death  in 
1890,  there  was  also  a  remarkable  dexterity  and  lucidity  of 
mind,  as  weU  as  a  capacity  for  rapid  and  brilliant  generaliza- 
tion, which  as  a  boy  I  always  felt  while  listening  to  him  and 
which  as  a  man  I  could  define  and  appreciate. 

Such  were  the  men,  seen  by  me  now  in  the  backward  look, 
who  impressed  me  in  those  early  years  as  in  some  undefined 
way  more  interesting  than  the  rest,  and  who  were  to  my 
mind  in  their  effect  upon  me,  or  in  what  I  heard,  of  greater 


58  EARLY  MEMORIES 

importance  than  others.  Yet  this  serious  sense  of  their 
importance,  although  strongly  felt,  did  not  put  them  at  all 
in  the  class  of  those  who  were  heroes  to  me  at  that  moment. 
It  merely  set  them  apart.  My  heroes  then  were  at  once 
nearer  and  better  understood,  more  familiar  and  more  ad- 
mired. 

The  event  in  which  I  think  I  felt  the  most  passionate 
interest  at  that  time  was  the  great  fight  between  Heenan 
and  Sayers.  The  manner  in  which  the  English  crowd  broke 
the  ropes,  when  Heenan  had  finally  got  Sayers  in  chancery 
and  in  another  minute  would  have  broken  his  neck  or  won 
the  fight,  filled  me  with  an  anger  which  I  still  think  just, 
but  at  which  I  now  smile  and  wonder.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
no  greater  injustice  had  ever  been  committed  than  this 
act  of  violence,  which  led  to  the  declaration  that  it  was  a 
drawn  fight.  It  was  my  first  experience  of  what  is  called 
fair  play  in  England,  and  I  do  not  think  that  I  ever  wholly 
recovered  from  it,  although  I  have  seen  so  many  instances 
of  it  since  that  I  have  come  to  appreciate  what  it  means. 
From  this  vivid  recollection  of  the  famous  battle,  it  may  be 
gathered  what  sort  of  persons  appeared  really  heroic  to  me 
when  I  was  a  small  boy.  They  were  men  whose  feats  were 
chiefly  physical,  great  prize-fighters,  athletes,  riders,  hunters, 
and  adventurers  by  sea  and  land,  of  whom  I  read,  and  their 
more  humble  exemplars  in  the  stable,  by  the  river,  or  on 
the  playing-field,  with  whom  I  loved  to  associate  and  whom 
I  watched  admiringly  from  a  distance. 


CHAPTER  IV 
BOYHOOD:  1860-1867 

I  MUST  begin  this  chapter  after  the  Shandean  manner 
by  going  back  and  telling  what  happened  during  the  period 
covered  by  its  predecessors  and  which  was  there  omitted. 
There  were  various  incidents  before  the  year  with  which 
this  chapter  begins  which  I  cannot  pass  over  in  silence,  be- 
cause they  were  so  important  to  me  and  loomed  so  large  in 
my  small  life  at  that  time. 

In  the  year  1858  we  were  obliged  to  leave  Winthrop 
Place,  as  Devonshire  Street  was  opened  through  from  the 
rear  and  passed  directly  across  the  site  of  our  house  and 
garden.  My  father,  therefore,  bought  No.  31  Beacon  Street, 
and  thither,  when  he  had  practically  rebuilt  the  house,  we 
went  to  live  in  1859,  after  some  months  at  the  Revere 
House,  necessitated  by  the  delays  occasioned  by  the  altera- 
tions. Thirty-one  Beacon  Street  had  belonged  to  Mr. 
Samuel  Eliot,  a  well-known  and  greatly  respected  citizen  in 
the  Boston  of  those  days.  He  had  served  in  Congress  as  a 
conservative  Whig  from  one  of  the  Boston  districts,  and 
going  into  business  late  in  life  had  lost  all  his  property 
when  the  firm  with  which  he  was  connected  was  carried 
down  in  the  panic  of  1857,  a  disaster  so  wide-reaching  in 
its  effects  that  I  well  remember  the  feeling  of  gloom  which 
seemed  to  oppress  every  one  during  that  year.  Thus  it 
came  about  that  Mr.  Eliot's  house  and  all  that  it  contained 
was  sold  for  the  benefit  of  his  creditors.  My  father  in 

59 


60  EARLY  MEMORIES 

buying  it  tried  to  do  everything  in  his  power  to  soften  the 
blow  which  had  fallen  upon  Mr.  Eliot.  He  offered  to  take, 
and  took,  at  the  valuation  which  the  family  caused  to  be 
placed  upon  them,  any  articles  in  the  house  which  they 
wished  to  dispose  of.  But  my  father  was  especially  dis- 
tressed at  the  thought  that  Mr.  Eliot  would  be  compelled 
to  lose  his  library.  He  therefore  made  inquiries,  indirectly, 
to  find  out  whether  Mr.  Eliot  would  accept  the  library  if 
it  were  bought  from  the  assignees  and  presented  to  him. 
Being  satisfied  on  this  point,  he  went  to  some  of  Mr.  Eliot's 
friends,  raised  the  money,  bought  the  library  and  gave  it 
to  Mr.  Eliot.  None  of  the  subscribers  allowed  his  name  to 
be  known  except  my  father,  who  could  not  avoid  doing 
so  as  he  was  obliged  to  represent  the  others  and  make  the 
presentation.  So  much  time  has  passed  since  then  that 
there  can  be  no  harm  in  giving  the  correspondence,  which 
affords  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  the  Boston  of  those  days  and 
of  the  ways  of  her  people.  On  a  note  from  Mr.  Eliot's  son 
(afterwards  the  distinguished  president  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity), which  said  that  his  father  would  be  gratified  to  re- 
ceive his  library,  my  father  had  written: 

You  will  see  by  the  above  that  Mr.  Eliot  is  willing  to  receive 
the  books  as  proposed. 

J.  E.  L. 

Then  on  the  next  page  he  had  the  names  (most  of  them 
autographs)  of  the  gentlemen  who  subscribed  to  buy  in 
the  library.  As  I  have  just  said,  they  would  not  permit 
their  names  to  be  known  at  the  time;  but  now  there  is 
no  longer  a  reason  for  any  concealment  of  their  friendship, 
and  good-feeling,  even  delicacy  as  sensitive  as  theirs,  would 
not  be  shocked  at  allowing  the  left  hand  to  know  what  the 
right  hand  had  done.  The  names  are  as  follows,  a  very 
excellent  Boston  list,  as  well  as  a  great  tribute  to  Mr.  Eliot 


BOYHOOD:   1860-1867  61 

and  to  the  high  and  affectionate  regard  which  was  felt  for 
him  by  every  one: 

Nathan  Appleton, 

William  Appleton, 

William  Sturgis, 

Ozias  Goodwin, 

Henry  Cabot, 

John  E.  Lodge, 

John  Bryant, 

David  Sears, 

William  Amory, 

William  H.  Prescott, 

Josiah  Bradley, 

Francis  Bacon, 

I.  Davis,  Jr., 

W.  H.  Bordman, 

N.  Thayer. 

The  two  following  notes  complete  the  little  story: 

MYDEARSIR:-  March  9th,  1858. 

The  receipt  of  the  books  which  were  moved  to  my  present  resi- 
dence yesterday  renews  the  feeling  of  which  I  have  had  frequent 
experience  lately,  of  gratitude  to  my  friends.  As  I  do  not  know 
to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  this  act  of  considerate  kindness  and 
marked  generosity  I  must  beg  of  you,  to  whom  I  owe  the  sugges- 
tion, I  believe,  to  communicate  to  the  parties  my  thanks  in  a  suit- 
able manner  and  to  assure  them  that  a  new  association  will  be 
formed  with  my  books,  more  valuable  than  all  the  wisdom  or 
beauty  they  contain  and  that  I  hope  to  make  a  proper  use  of  them 
and  to  leave  them  to  my  children  as  an  evidence  of  the  liberality 
and  thoughtfulness  of  those  with  whom  I  have  lived  and  whom  I 

proud  to  call  my  friends. 

With  grateful  esteem, 
Yrs 

SAM'L  A.  ELIOT. 
TORN  E.  LODGE,  Esq. 


62  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Wednesday 
MY  DEAR  SIR: — 

Your  note  of  yesterday  shows  me  that  your  friends  did  not 
err  in  supposing  that  you  had  a  hearty  appreciation  of  your  beau- 
tiful library  and  also  that  we  did  not  overrate  the  cordial  welcome 
you  would  bestow  upon  it,  a  welcome  such  as  we  only  accord  to 
our  old  and  most  valued  friends. 

I  am  but  an  humble  instrument  in  the  performance  of  this  most 
agreeable  act,  but  I  shall  be  most  glad  to  assure  your  friends  whose 
happiness  it  was  to  assist  in  it,  that  greatly  as  they  enjoyed  re- 
storing to  you  these  silent  and  yet  eloquent  monitors  and  friends, 
their  pleasure  was  equalled  by  yours  in  receiving  them. 

With  great  regard 

etc  etc 

J.  E.  LODGE 
HON.  SAMUEL  A.  ELIOT. 

Another  pleasant  association  with  this  purchase  of  31 
Beacon  Street  has  come  to  me  suddenly  out  of  the  past, 
and  I  add  it  here.  In  looking  over  some  papers  of  her  grand- 
father, Mr.  Prescott,  Mrs.  Roger  Wolcott  recently  came 
across  this  allusion  in  a  letter  written  on  February  22,  1858 : 

"The  last  item  that  I  have  heard  is  that  Mr.  Lodge  has 
bought  Sam.  Eliot's  house  in  Beacon  St.  for  $50,000.  I 
mean  John  E.  Lodge,  and  I  am  glad  that  it  has  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  an  old  acquaintance." 

This  change  of  houses  brought  us  into  an  entirely  differ- 
ent quarter  of  the  city.  Winthrop  Place  was  in  the  old  part 
of  Boston,  that  low  land  which  lies  between  the  hills  and 
the  sea,  while  Beacon  Street,  although  not  by  any  means  just 
opened  or  recently  built  upon,  was  the  portion  of  the  town 
from  which  the  new  residence  quarter  was  destined  to 
spring,  pushing  its  way  to  the  westward  over  the  flats  of 
the  Back  Bay,  still  at  that  time  marsh  and  water  and 
bridged  by  only  one  road,  known  as  the  Milldam,  which 
stretched  across  the  inlets  to  the  mainland  at  Longwood. 


BOYHOOD:  1860-1867  63 

Thirty-one  Beacon  Street,  where  I  passed  many  happy 
years  and  where  my  mother  continued  to  live  for  more 
than  forty  years,  until  her  death  in  1900,  stood  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  not  far  from  the  State  House  and  next  to  the 
famous  and  historic  home  of  the  first  signer  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  The  Hancock  house  was  a  fine  ex- 
ample of  its  period,  good  architecturally,  built  very  solidly 
of  granite  in  the  Colonial  style  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  was  raised  above  the  street  on  a  series  of  terraces.  It 
was  my  father's  ambition  to  buy  the  house  when  it  came 
into  the  market  and  give  it  to  the  State,  but  he  died  a  year 
before  the  house  was  sold.  Governor  Banks  had  recom- 
mended the  purchase  of  the  Hancock  house  by  the  State 
some  years  before,  but  when  the  opportunity  came  the  coun- 
try was  plunged  in  civil  war,  and  the  government  did  not 
feel  able  to  spend  money  on  what  seemed  a  mere  sentiment. 
So  it  was  sold  to  private  persons  and  torn  down  in  1863. 
Thus  perished  by  far  the  finest  and  historically  the  most 
interesting  of  our  Colonial  houses,  the  building  best  worth 
preserving,  as  a  specimen  of  eighteenth-century  domestic 
architecture,  which  existed  in  New  England  or  perhaps  any- 
where in  the  old  thirteen  States.  I  was  convalescent  from 
scarlet  fever  when  the  house  was  taken  down  and  used  to  sit 
at  the  window  of  my  play-room  and  watch  the  men  slowly 
pry  off  one  block  of  stone  after  another,  for  the  masonry 
was  so  solid  that  it  could  be  accomplished  in  no  other  way. 
I  hated  to  see  this  done,  for  I  was  attached  to  the  old  house 
and  had  often  been  in  it  and  over  it  with  Charles  Hancock, 
one  of  the  sons  of  the  last  owner. 

Our  house,  as  I  have  said,  stood  on  the  crest  of  Beacon 
Street  and  looked  south  over  the  Common,  with  its  fine 
trees,  while  from  the  side  windows  in  the  first  years  we  could 
see  the  street  across  the  Hancock  garden,  filled  with  lilac 
bushes,  the  perfume  of  which,  in  our  tardy  spring,  loaded 


64  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  air  with  fragrance.  Ours  was  a  spacious  house  of  gen- 
erous width  and  full  of  sunshine.  I  thought  then,  and  think 
still,  that  it  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  situations  and  that 
few  city  houses  have  one  at  all  comparable  to  it. 

The  other  great  event  in  my  life  contemporary  with 
removal  to  a  new  house  was  my  leaving  Mrs.  Parkman  and 
going  to  a  new  and,  what  was  far  more  momentous,  a  man's 
school,  which  was  kept  in  a  large  room  under  Park  Street 
Church.  It  was  a  small  private  school,  and  the  master  was 
Mr.  Thomas  Russell  Sullivan,  a  grandson  of  James  Sullivan, 
governor  of  Massachusetts  at  the  beginning  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  and  grand-nephew  of  John  Sullivan,  the  dis- 
tinguished Revolutionary  general.  Mr.  Sullivan  had  been 
a  clergyman  before  he  became  a  schoolmaster  and  was  an 
accomplished  man.  He  always  seemed  to  me  sad  and  op- 
pressed with  care,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  fact  that  his 
health  was  giving  way.  But  he  was  a  thorough  gentleman, 
kindly  and  good,  and,  although  I  regarded  him  as  a  natural 
enemy  at  the  time,  I  find  now  that  I  recall  his  memory  with 
affection  and  respect. 

This  change  of  school  was  to  me  a  great  event  and  ap- 
peared in  the  light  of  a  promotion,  as  I  fancy  the  first  man's 
school  always  seems  to  a  boy.  Yet  I  left  Mrs.  Parkman's 
with  secret  regret,  for  I  had  the  unmanly  weakness,  as  I 
considered  it,  to  be  fond  of  her,  and  I  was  much  attached  to 
the  boys  who  had  been  my  companions  in  her  house.  I 
do  not  know  that  one's  schoolfellows  are  of  much  interest 
to  anybody  except  themselves,  although  I  have  always  en- 
joyed the  accounts  of  Lamb's  and  Coleridge's  schoolmates, 
most  of  whom  are  rescued  from  oblivion  merely  by  that  asso- 
ciation. I  think,  however,  that  all  schoolboys  have  the 
charm  at  the  moment  which  possibilities  always  possess, 
and  afterward  develop  the  interest  which  is  inseparable 
from  looking  backward  and  seeing  how  these  possibilities 


BOYHOOD:   1860-1867  65 

of  school  and  college  finally  worked  out,  and  how  constant 
the  rule  is  in  these  cases  of  the  unexpected  happening. 
There  is  pleasure  as  well  as  pain  in  such  retrospects  which 
disclose  the  spectacle  both  of  success  and  failure,  and  the 
humor  of  the  early  memories  is  often  clouded  by  the  pathos 
or  the  tragedy  with  which  the  little  stories  end — 

"Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing, 

Some  with  deeds  as  well  undone; 
Death  came  silently  and  took  them 
Where  they  never  see  the  sun." 

Just  as  it  happened  to  Galuppi's  Venetians.  It  is  a  very 
old  and  very  familiar  story. 

With  those  of  my  school  companions  at  Mrs.  Parkman's 
who  have  lived,  I  have  maintained  my  friendship  and  con- 
tinued to  know  them  more  or  less  intimately  all  my  life. 
Among  them  were  Sturgis  Bigelow,  doctor,  man  of  science, 
lover  of  art,  public  benefactor  and  friend   of  a  lifetime; 
Henry  Parkman,  successful  and  trusted  business  man  and 
lawyer,  head  of  a  great  bank;  Arthur  Mills,  successful  like- 
wise in  business,  maker  of  his  own  fortune,  dead  in  1907; 
Livingston  Wadsworth,  my  especial  crony  in  those  days, 
rho  died  when  he  was  only  fourteen,  bringing  me  my  first 
>yish  sorrow  for  a  friend;   his  younger  brother,  Herbert; 
ly  cousin  Harry  Lee,  who  died  young;    another  cousin, 
Jamuel  Cabot,  odd,  genial,  lovable,  who  made  an  unex- 
icted  fortune  by  his  own  inventions  and  became  a  Shake- 
>earean  scholar  because  he  was  bewitched  by  the  Baconian 
ibsurdity.    They  all  seem  very  vivid  and  real  as  I  write 
;heir  names,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  think  that  these  first 
friendships,  made  so  long  ago,  remained  unbroken  except 
>y  death. 

At  Mr.  Sullivan's,  made  memorable  to  me  by  the  fact 
it  I  was  there  f erruled  for  the  first  time,  while  my  friends 


66  EARLY  MEMORIES 

lurked  outside  the  door  to  count  the  blows,  and  see  whether 
I  cried,  I  remember  but  few  of  the  boys.  I  think  I  lost 
sight  of  most  of  them  after  our  brief  two  years  together, 
but  there  were  a  few  whom  I  first  knew  there  and  whom  I 
have  known  ever  since.  One  was  Frank  Hubbard,  a  cousin 
and  an  intimate,  with  whom  I  shot  and  fished  and  travelled, 
but  of  whom  I  saw  little  in  later  life,  as  he  did  not  go  to  col- 
lege. A  second  was  Frank  Jackson,  also  a  kinsman,  who 
went  on  with  me  to  my  next  school  and  thence  to  Harvard. 
A  third  was  George  Lyman,  a  strong,  active  boy,  ready  for 
any  sport  or  adventure;  in  these  later  years  a  leader  in  our 
Republican  politics,  chairman  of  our  State  committee,  a 
member  of  our  national  committee,  and  for  twelve  years 
collector  of  the  port  of  Boston.  A  fourth  was  Frank  Chad- 
wick,  a  friend  and  companion  at  Nahant,  with  me  at  my 
next  school  and  in  college,  of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to 
say  later.  Yet  another  of  them  was  Russell  Sullivan,  son  of 
the  master,  writer  of  plays  and  novels  and  charming  stories, 
a  friend  long  years  afterwards  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
one  of  my  intimates  then,  sharing  my  love  of  the  theatre, 
the  most  delightful  of  men  and  a  lifelong  friend.  Still 
another  intimate  of  those  days,  whom  I  had  known  from 
the  beginning  as  a  neighbor,  was  Russell  Gray,  younger 
brother  of  the  eminent  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  Horace  Gray.  He  was  just  my  age,  but  like 
most  of  his  family  so  phenomenally  clever  at  his  books  that 
he  was  two  years  ahead  of  the  rest  of  us,  both  at  school  and 
college.  None  the  less  he  too  has  been  the  friend  of  a  life- 
time and  he  figures  largely  in  the  memories  of  my  boyhood. 
So  also  do  the  two  Sargents,  Horace  and  Lucius,  sons  of  Gen- 
eral H.  B.  Sargent.  Lucius,  the  younger,  became  in  later 
years  one  of  my  closest  and  best-loved  friends.  He  was  a 
handsome,  gallant  boy,  and  was  a  gallant  and  handsome 
man,  full  of  humor,  charm,  and  fascination. 


BOYHOOD:  1860-1867  67 

In  thus  mentioning  a  few  of  the  boys  whom  I  knew  at 
the  beginning  of  life,  I  am  led  to  say  something  to  which  I 
have  long  desired  to  give  utterance,  purely  for  my  own  satis- 
faction, of  boys  in  general  and  of  boy  nature,  a  much  mis- 
understood subject,  so  far  as  my  observation  goes,  especially 
in  literature.  The  misunderstanding  arises,  I  fear,  not  from 
ignorance  so  much  as  from  unwillingness  to  tell  the  truth, 
just  as  happens  in  the  attempts  of  literature  to  describe  the 
lives  of  young  men.  Thackeray  came  nearer  to  it  than  any 
one  when  he  told  the  story  of  Pendennis,  and  yet  he  did  not, 
and  I  think  he  admitted  that  he  did  not,  dare  to  tell  the 
whole  truth.  "There  are  subjects,  my  dear,"  said  Major 
Pendennis  to  his  sister-in-law,  "  about  which  a  young  fellow 
cannot  surely  talk  to  his  mamma."  It  is  eminently  proper 
that  there  should  be  such  a  restriction.  It  is  equally  true 
that  there  are  some  things  that  no  man  says  to  young  girls 
or  to  innocent  children,  but  when  you  assume  that  literature 
must  be  framed  according  to  those  restrictions  the  truth 
of  literature  to  life  is  apt  to  be  defective.  The  episodes  in 
"Pendennis"  of  Fanny  and  the  Fotheringay  and  of  Warring- 
ton's  marriage  were  as  far  as  Thackeray  had  the  courage  to 
go  in  indicating  a  side  of  nearly  every  man's  life  which  those 
who  write  the  English  language  think  it  due  to  the  great 
fetich  of  respectability  to  suppress.  Fielding  and  Smollett, 
living  in  a  time  of  much  less  "respectability,"  were  more 
truthful  and  are  now  thought  coarse,  but  the  nineteenth 
century  in  England  and  America  preferred  suppression, 
although,  as  Mr.  George  Sampson  remarked  of  the  under 
petticoat:  "After  all,  you  know,  ma'am,  we  know  it's  there." 
From  this  attitude  there  has  been  of  late  years  a  revolt, 
conducted,  unluckily,  for  the  most  part  by  such  inferior 
hands  that  the  result  is  even  less  lifelike  than  when  Vic- 
torian "respectability"  set  its  burdensome  limitations  upon 
all  writers.  In  France  they  have  suffered  from  the  hypoc- 


68  EARLY  MEMORIES 

risy  of  vice,  as  in  England  and  the  United  States  from  the 
hypocrisy  of  virtue,  and  the  result  has  been  nearly  as  de- 
forming. The  youthful  Casanova,  Chevalier  de  Seingalt,  is 
almost  as  rare  among  young  men  as  the  blameless  prig  and 
is  as  unreal  as  a  hero  of  the  Romantic  period  like  Pelham. 

In  the  same  way,  although  not  for  the  same  precise 
reason  perhaps,  we  have  suffered  from  the  suppressio  veri  in 
regard  to  boys.  The  best  analysis  of  boy  nature  at  large 
that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  read  it  long  after  I  had  ceased  to 
be  a  boy,  is  that  of  Mr.  Howells  in  "A  Boy's  Town."  This 
analysis  is  limited  by  the  fact  that  it  relates  to  boys  in  a 
small  country  town  in  a  newly  settled  country,  and  there  is 
some  slight  suppression,  but  the  essential  features  are  all 
set  forth.  Mr.  Howells  points  out  the  close  resemblance  of 
boys  to  savages  or  primitive  people  as  shown  by  their  queer 
adhesion  to  meaningless  customs,  such  as  doing  certain 
things  only  at  certain  times  of  the  year,  their  odd  supersti- 
tions wholly  unconnected  with  religion,  their  loyalty  to 
some  code  peculiar  to  themselves  and  alien  to  every  one 
else,  and  their  ready  hero-worship,  often  misdirected  but 
at  bottom  generous  and  fine.  He  describes  the  mad  en- 
thusiasm and  excitement  with  which  they  rush  into  any 
new  pursuit  and  the  ease  with  which  they  tire  of  it  and  thrust 
it  aside,  lacking,  like  savages,  both  foresight  and  tenacity 
of  purpose,  something  very  different  from  obstinacy,  in 
which  boys  abound.  All  these  points  are  at  once  subtle 
and  true,  speaking,  as  we  must,  of  boys  as  a  class  and  not 
of  the  exceptional  boys  who  prove  the  existence  of  the  rule. 

Most  of  these  qualities  are  entirely  overlooked  by  those 
who  have  undertaken  to  write  about  boys.  Consider,  for 
instance,  the  Jacob  Abbott  books.  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  underrate  those  works,  for  I  read  them  over  and 
over  again,  and  they  had  the  same  unfailing  attraction  for 
my  children.  The  charm,  I  think,  consists  in  the  extreme 


BOYHOOD:   1860-1867  69 

realism  of  the  incidents,  a  realism  so  dry  and  unrelenting 
that  it  leaves  the  greatest  of  modern  realists  far  behind. 
It  is,  however,  just  this  dry  realism  which  children  like,  al- 
though at  the  same  time  they  adore  fairy  stories  which  appeal 
only  to  their  imagination.  But  the  boys  and  girls  who  are 
the  heroes  and  heroines  of  these  tales,  from  Hollo  down,  are, 
like  Dry  den's  Mexicans,  beings  who  never  really  existed 
anywhere  on  sea  or  land.  To  the  adult  mind  they  are  humor- 
ous, but  children  accept  them  seriously  and  are  fully  con- 
tent with  the  matter-of-fact  incidents  of  their  lives. 

Take  another  example:  a  book  which  was  the  favorite 
with  all  boys  of  my  time,  "School  Days  at  Rugby."  Up  to 
a  certain  point  no  better  book  describing  boys  was  ever 
written.  Tom  Brown  and  Harry  East  are  real  boys,  real  in 
their  activities,  in  their  habit  of  regarding  the  masters  as 
their  tribal  enemies,  in  their  shirking  of  lessons,  in  their 
courage  at  games,  in  their  complete  lack  of  any  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility, in  their  loyalty  to  their  own  code  of  honor,  and 
in  the  cheerful  paganism  of  their  lives.  The  story  goes  to 
pieces  when  Arthur  appears.  When  I  read  the  story  as  a  boy 
I  lost  all  interest  after  Arthur  took  control,  and  revolted 
against  it.  I  could  not  analyze  my  feeling  then  or  explain 
it,  but  the  reason  is  obvious  enough.  To  the  average  healthy 
boy  Arthur  appears  to  be  a  prig,  which  he  was,  and  a  hypo- 
crite, which  he  probably  was  not,  but  the  great  defect  is 
that  he  is  unreal  and  untrue  to  boy  life.  Such  boys  no 
doubt  exist,  but  they  do  not  convert  other  boys  and  send 
them  to  head  masters  to  experience  a  religious  revival,  be- 
cause most  boys  are  natural  and  not  artificial.  The  demon 
of  respectability  conjoined  with  the  then  prevailing  fashion 
of  "muscular  Christianity"  took  this  means  of  marring  an 
otherwise  excellent  book. 

The  boys  whom  I  knew,  closely  resembled  Tom  Brown 
and  Harry  East  before  they  held  their  camp-meetings  with 


70  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Doctor  Arnold.  They  were  as  a  rule  the  reverse  of  timid; 
they  fought  a  good  deal  among  themselves  and  with  others; 
they  learned  their  lessons  after  a  fashion,  some  very  well, 
some  very  ill;  they  had  a  portentous  activity  in  mischief 
which  occupied  much  of  their  time;  they  had  a  large  and 
ignorant  curiosity  as  to  sexual  relations,  not  morbid,  merely 
characteristic  of  the  young  animal;  they  all  tried  to  smoke 
and  were  cured,  for  the  time  at  least,  by  being  made  violently 
sick,  and  they  had  a  strict  sense  of  honor  according  to  their 
own  strange  code.  They  were  in  an  odd  way  intensely  con- 
servative. Youth  is  radical  and  revolutionary,  but  the  child 
is  conservative.  It  is  not  the  conservatism  of  age  which 
knows  that  changes  are  inevitable  and  instinctively  bears  and 
resists  them.  The  child  contemplates  no  change.  He  re- 
gards the  arrangement  of  his  little  world  as  final  and  resents 
any  other  view.  Hence  his  superstitions  and  his  attachment 
to  certain  seasons  for  certain  games  or  sports.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  watch  a  child  gradually  outgrow  these  traits  of  the  in- 
fancy of  the  race.  The  boys  I  knew  loved  secrets  and  useless 
mystery,  and,  as  Stevenson  says  in  "The  Lantern-Bearers," 
indulged  in  much  " silly  and  indecent  talk";  they  were 
natural  idlers,  like  savages,  and,  like  savages,  they  had  a  ten- 
dency to  be  cruel,  which  disappeared  as  they  grew  up  and 
began  to  think.  They  were  as  a  rule  generous,  and  they 
were  certainly  improvident,  again  until  they  began  to  think, 
for  the  absence  of  connected  thought  among  boys,  their  in- 
ability, to  put  it  more  exactly,  to  think  coherently,  makes 
foresight  impossible  and  allies  them  with  savages,  who  repre- 
sent the  boyhood  of  the  race.  Boys,  as  I  knew  them — and 
I  speak  always  of  the  average  and  of  the  majority — were 
adventurous — an  excellent  quality — and  would  run  huge 
risks  for  trivial  objects,  which  was  much  less  excellent.  The 
boys  with  whom  I  lived  and  played  would  habitually  ven- 
ture their  necks  climbing  over  the  roofs  of  high  houses  or 


BOYHOOD:   1860-1867  71 

"shinning"  up  trees,  in  the  one  case  for  mischief,  in  the  other 
for  birds'  eggs.  They  would  run  every  sort  of  risk  on  the 
water  or  in  it,  or  when  the  ice  broke  up  in  spring,  just  for 
mere  excitement.  They  had  an  unbridled  love  of  explosives, 
and  few  indeed  were  those  who  had  not  burned  themselves 
more  or  less  with  gunpowder.  I  was  personally  very  for- 
tunate in  this  respect,  for  I  think  I  was  naturally  cautious. 
Except  for  pitching  out  backward  and  head  first  from  an 
express  cart  which  I  had  not  been  invited  to  enter,  and 
knocking  myself  senseless  on  the  stones  of  the  gutter,  and 
on  another  occasion  burning  all  the  skin  off  my  hand  with 
a  train  of  gunpowder  which  I  ignited  with  a  view  to  im- 
printing my  immortal  initials  on  a  window-sill,  I  came  off 
unscathed.  Pain  from  accidents  like  these  boys  bear  as  a 
rule  with  savage  stoicism,  but  their  moral  is  very  inferior 
to  their  physical  courage.  They  shrink  from  going  contrary 
to  the  public  opinion  of  their  own  world,  although  they  will 
defy  that  of  their  elders  with  a  fine  indifference.  That  all 
men  are  liars  we  know  upon  high  if  hasty  authority,  but 
although  boys  entangle  themselves  in  deceptions  and  do 
not  always  respect  as  they  ought  the  division  between 
meum  and  tuum,  those  whom  I  knew  were  as  a  rule  fairly 
truthful,  especially  to  each  other,  and  a  boy  who  broke  his 
word  was  regarded  with  marked  disfavor  and  contempt. 
They  also  resembled  savages  or  people  of  a  low  civilization 
in  their  destructiveness.  They  liked  to  destroy  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  destruction.  A  large  part  of  the  waking  hours 
of  my  friends  and  myself  was  given  up  to  mere  mischief, 
from  ringing  door-bells  and  breaking  windows  and  street- 
lamps  to  much  more  serious  undertakings.  We  were  in 
consequence  anything  but  popular  in  the  neighborhoods 
which  we  graced  by  our  presence,  and  we  went  in  perpetual 
fear  of  householders  whom  we  had  wantonly  injured,  and 
of  policemen  who,  as  we  fancied,  were  on  a  constant  look- 


72  EARLY  MEMORIES 

out  for  us.  I  know  that,  like  Mr.  Swiveller,  the  number  of 
streets  which  were  closed  to  me  steadily  increased,  not 
as  in  his  case  on  account  of  debts,  but  from  the  dread  of 
just  retribution  at  the  hands  of  those  whose  property  I 
had  injured. 

Such  were  boys  as  I  knew  them,  young  heathens  and 
little  Gallios  for  the  most  part,  but  rarely  hypocrites.  If 
the  outline  I  have  drawn  is  not  flattering,  it  is,  I  believe, 
correct,  and  these  same  boys  by  a  large  percentage  turned 
out  well  and  became  honest  men  and  useful  citizens.  I 
do  not  believe  that  they  differed  much  from  well-born, 
well-cared-for  boys  with  the  same  race  traditions  anywhere 
else.  They  were  at  least  pleasant  to  live  with,  if  you  were 
one  of  them,  although  I  can  conceive  that  they  might  often 
have  been  a  sore  trial  to  those  charged  with  their  bringing 
up,  as  well  as  to  other  adult  persons  who  had  the  misfortune 
to  be  their  neighbors.  If  they  were  frequently  harsh,  or 
even  cruel  at  times,  to  the  timid  or  the  weak,  they  had  a 
wholesome  dislike  of  the  youthful  prig — especially  if  he  was 
a  religious  prig — for  they  felt  that  such  boys  must  be  in- 
sincere and  they  drove  them  out  from  among  them. 

Before  I  come  to  my  next  school  I  must  tell  of  an  in- 
cident which  befell  me  at  the  end  of  my  first  decade,  and  as 
my  life  has  been  singularly  destitute  of  adventures  I  may  be 
excused  for  narrating  this  one.  It  is  not  a  tale  of  adventure 
by  flood  and  field,  but  of  a  crime  of  which  I  was  an  involun- 
tary and,  as  it  proved,  an  important  witness. 

In  the  summer  of  1860  I  was  as  usual  at  Nahant,  and 
among  my  playmates  was  a  boy  slightly  younger  than  my- 
self named  Charles  Allen  Thorndike  Rice.  His  father,  Mr. 
Henry  Rice,  and  his  aunts,  Mrs.  Grant  and  Mrs.  Guild, 
were  all  friends  of  my  father  and  mother.  They  lived  in 
summer  with  their  mother,  Mrs.  Rice,  and  with  the  many 
children  of  the  household  I  habitually  played.  The  young 


BOYHOOD:  1860-1867  73 

Grants  and  Guilds  I  had  always  known.  Allen  Rice  was  a 
new  acquaintance  and  much  prized  by  me.  To  explain  the 
situation  I  must  first  state  some  facts  which  were  not  known 
to  me  at  the  time.  Mr.  Henry  Rice's  marriage  had  been 
an  unhappy  one,  and  he  and  his  wife  had  recently  been 
divorced  in  Maryland,  where  he  then  lived.  The  Maryland 
court  had  awarded  the  custody  of  the  child  to  Mr.  Rice. 
When  Mr.  Rice  came  to  Massachusetts  for  the  summer  his 
former  wife  applied  for  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus  in  order  to 
get  possession  of  the  boy.  Judge  Bigelow  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  in  an  elaborate  opinion,  delivered  on  August  1,  I860, 
gave  the  custody  of  the  child  unconditionally  to  his  father. 
Mrs.  Rice,  who  was  a  passionate  and  determined  woman,  was 
bent  on  gaining  possession  of  her  son  and  had  already  made 
one  attempt  to  abduct  him.  Charlie  Rice,  as  I  called  him, 
was  always  accompanied  by  a  negro  servant,  a  powerful 
man,  named  Jackson,  which  seemed  to  me  odd,  but  which 
in  the  easy  fashion  of  childhood  I  accepted  without  question. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  negro  was  armed  and  was  there  to 
protect  the  child.  He  was  always  with  him  except  in  the 
house  or  when  the  boy  was  at  school.  The  only  moment, 
therefore,  when  it  was  practicable  to  kidnap  the  child  was 
when  he  was  actually  in  school,  which  I  suppose  his  father 
thought  impossible,  but  which,  as  it  turned  out,  was  just 
the  occasion  when  the  abduction  was  effected. 

The  school  in  question  was  a  small  one,  kept  by  a  Mr. 
Fette,  and  lasted  only  for  two  or  three  hours  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  not  considered  necessary  that  I  should  improve 
my  mind  by  lessons  in  summer,  a  deprivation  which  I  bore 
with  philosophy,  but  as  most  of  my  friends  enjoyed  this  edu- 
cational advantage  I  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  school 
about  noon  and  waiting  at  the  door  for  them  to  come  out. 
The  school  was  held  in  a  church,  a  building  of  the  Greek 
temple  type,  with  a  Doric  portico  after  the  fashion  of  the  first 


74  EARLY  MEMORIES 

years  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  classical  buildings 
were  much  in  vogue.  So  one  fine  summer  morning  (Satur- 
day, August  4,  three  days  after  the  decree  of  the  court)  I 
seated  myself  at  the  base  of  one  of  the  aforesaid  columns 
to  await  the  escape  of  my  companions  from  their  prison- 
house,  which  was  to  occur  in  a  few  minutes.  I  was  not  a 
conspicuous  figure  in  the  landscape,  but  I  was  an  idle  and 
observant  one.  As  I  sat  there,  looking  up  and  down  the 
quiet  and  perfectly  empty  country  road — for  Nahant  was 
a  small  place  in  those  days,  and  the  great  hotel,  of  which  I 
have  before  spoken,  had  failed  and  was  closed — my  wander- 
ing attention  was  attracted  by  a  buggy,  rapidly  driven, 
which  passed  the  church  and  went  on  to  the  end  of  the  road. 
There  it  turned  and  came  back,  turned  again  and  repeated 
the  same  movement.  My  father  was  a  lover  and  owner  of 
horses  and,  as  I  shall  explain  later,  I  had  a  fine  natural 
taste  for  horses  myself.  The  horse  in  this  particular  buggy 
caught  my  eye  and  I  set  him  down  as  very  handsome  and 
very  fast. 

Meanwhile  I  noticed  another  buggy  which  had  stopped 
farther  down  the  road  without  coming  to  the  church  at  all. 
From  this  second  buggy  two  men  alighted,  walked  up  the 
street  and  stopped  on  the  corner  opposite  the  church.  Idly 
watching  them  I  noticed  that  one  was  a  smooth-faced,  dark- 
skinned  young  man  with  black  hair  and  that  the  other  was 
a  stoutly  built,  older  man,  with  reddish  hair  and  beard. 
Just  as  I  was  looking  at  them  the  first  buggy  came  back  and 
drew  up  in  front  of  the  church  close  to  where  I  was  sitting. 
A  large  man  with  brown  hair,  mustache,  and  flowing  whiskers 
of  the  style  made  famous  by  Lord  Dundreary  jumped  out, 
the  other  two  men  crossed  over,  and  all  three  rushed  into 
the  church.  In  a  moment,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the  large 
man  with  the  whiskers  came  out  with  Allen  Rice  in  his  arms, 
put  him  into  the  buggy,  drew  the  boot  over  him,  and  drove 


BOYHOOD  :  1860-1867 


75 


away  at  top  speed.  Another  moment  and  the  other  two 
men  ran  out  and  up  the  street  toward  their  buggy,  with  the 
schoolmaster,  his  Newfoundland  dog,  his  pupils,  and  I  all 
in  hot  pursuit.  The  men  reached  their  buggy  and  got 
away  before  we  could  overtake  them,  and  that  was  the  last 
I  saw  of  Allen  Rice  for  nearly  twenty  years.  His  mother 
disguised  him  as  a  girl,  and  after  some  narrow  escapes  man- 
aged to  reach  Florida,  where  it  was  possible  to  conceal  the 
child,  and  thence  contrived  to  make  her  way  to  England, 
where  young  Rice  was  educated,  going,  I  believe,  to  Oxford. 
As  for  me,  I  went  home  from  the  scene  of  action  full  of  ex- 
citement and  told  all  I  had  seen  to  my  family,  for  it  had 
naturally  made  a  profound  impression  upon  my  little  mind. 
That  night  as  I  was  going  to  bed  I  heard  voices  outside  the 
house,  and  listening  attentively  distinguished  Mr.  Rice 
saying  something  to  my  father  which  sounded  like  "  Cabot 
knowing  all  about  it."  What  this  might  portend  I  did  not 
know,  but  I  remember  a  slight  feeling  of  anxiety  similar  to 
that  most  familiar  sensation  which  was  wont  to  beset  me 
when  I  thought  that  some  scrape  of  mine  was  on  the  eve  of 
discovery.  Little  did  I  realize  what  importance  I  had  sud- 
denly assumed,  but  the  fact  was  that  I  was  the  only  person 
who  had  got  a  good  look  at  the  large  man  and  who  was 
capable  of  identifying  him,  because  the  other  two  men, 
when  they  seized  the  schoolmaster,  had  kept  themselves 
between  him  and  the  captor  of  the  boy. 

Two  or  three  days  later  I  was  taken  to  Boston  by  my 
father.  We  proceeded  to  the  Charles  Street  Jail,  where  we 
met  Mr.  Rice  and  some  detectives.  I  was  told  to  walk  around 
the  whole  range  of  cells,  look  into  each  and  if  I  saw  any  one 
of  the  three  men  engaged  in  the  abduction  at  Nahant,  to 
point  him  out.  I  walked  around  as  I  was  bidden,  looking 
into  some  forty  cells  and  some  very  evil  faces.  When  I 
reached  the  last  cell,  number  one,  I  stopped  and  said:  "That 


76  EARLY  MEMORIES 

is  the  man  who  took  Charlie."  As  he  had  meantime  shaved 
off  his  hair,  mustache,  and  whiskers,  the  identification  was 
unusually  prompt  and  complete.  The  man's  name  was 
Nickerson.  He  was  a  livery-stable  keeper,  and  he  had  been 
employed  by  Mrs.  Rice  and  her  mother,  who  had  become 
by  a  second  marriage  Mrs.  Bourne,  and  who  was  a  woman 
of  large  wealth,  to  kidnap  the  child.  There  was  no  tele- 
graph from  Nahant  in  those  days,  and  no  police,  so  that  by 
driving  straight  to  Boston  the  kidnappers  had  four  miles  or 
half  an  hour's  start.  With  great  speed  Boston  could  be 
reached  over  the  road  in  a  little  more  than  an  hour,  although 
the  distance  was  fifteen  miles,  but  in  this  way  the  train  and 
the  delay  at  the  Lynn  station  were  avoided.  Nickerson  had 
taken  a  well-known  trotting-horse  which  belonged  to  one  of 
his  customers  and  which  was  valued  at  twenty-five  hundred 
dollars,  a  large  sum  in  those  days,  and  in  this  way  he  got 
the  boy  to  Boston  before  the  news  reached  any  one  capable 
of  action.  Incidentally,  as  I  remember,  he  killed  the  horse 
by  overdriving,  and  Mrs.  Bourne  I  suppose  paid  for  it. 

The  reddish-haired  man  was  named  Smith  and  was  a 
hack-driver  in  the  employ  of  Nickerson.  He  was  arrested 
and  identified  by  Mr.  Fette,  although  I  also  subsequently 
identified  him  in  court.  The  third  man  was  never  caught. 
I  remember  being  taken  one  day  by  the  chief  detective  to 
a  shop  where  rope  and  twine  were  sold.  On  the  way  he 
said:  "Now  you  are  my  little  boy.  We  are  going  to  buy 
some  kite  string,  and  I  want  you  to  look  well  at  the  young 
man  who  sells  it  to  us  and  tell  me  if  you  saw  him  at  Nahant." 
I  was  delighted  to  buy  kite  string  and  carried  out  my  share 
of  the  plot  perfectly.  The  salesman  was  young,  dark- 
haired,  and  smooth-faced,  but  he  was  not  the  third  man. 
I  told  my  pretended  father  so  as  we  walked  off,  the  ball  of 
kite  string  tight  under  my  arm.  He  seemed  disappointed, 
but  I  think  it  gave  him  confidence  in  my  other  identifica- 


BOYHOOD  :   1860-1867 


77 


tions,  as  showing  that  I  had  a  decided  memory.  The  third 
man,  as  I  have  said,  was  never  taken,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  this  participant  was  Mrs.  Rice  herself,  for  she  was  en- 
tirely reckless,  and  her  presence  was  probably  necessary  to 
make  sure  that  the  right  boy  was  picked  up  in  the  scramble. 
Then  came  the  proceedings  of  the  law.  I  went  before  a 
grand  jury  and  told  my  story.  There  was  a  technical  flaw 
in  the  indictment  and  I  went  before  another  grand  jury  and 
told  it  again.  Then,  nearly  eighteen  months  after  the  kid- 
napping, the  case  came  on  for  trial  at  Lawrence,  one  of  the 
county  seats  of  Essex  County.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  en- 
joyed myself  hugely.  I  had  been  treated  as  a  person  of 
importance.  I  liked  to  go  about  with  detectives  and  visit 
jails  and  buy  kite  string  in  an  assumed  character,  and  tell 
my  story  to  a  few  grand  jury  men  in  a  quiet,  empty  room, 
and  then  pocket  witness  fees  which  represented  a  large 
amount  of  wealth  to  me  at  that  time.  But  when  it  came 
to  facing  a  crowded  court-room  it  was  a  different  matter. 
My  imagination  had  time  to  work,  and  as  the  day  approached 
I  became  very  nervous  and  thought  that  I  should  break 
down.  My  father  was  ill  and  could  not  go  with  me,  but 
he  promised  me  that  if  I  told  my  story  well,  as  I  had  told  it 
to  him,  and  behaved  creditably  on  the  witness-stand,  he 
would  give  me  a  gold  watch.  Even  this  alluring  prospect 
did  not  cheer  me,  and  I  went  with  my  mother  to  Lawrence 
and  sat  trembling  in  the  witness-room  in  a  very  doleful 
frame  of  mind.  At  last  I  was  called,  went  out  into  the 
crowded  court-room,  took  the  stand,  and  was  sworn.  The 
scene  rises  vividly  before  me,  for  I  seemed  like  a  drowning 
man  to  see  everything  at  once — Nickerson  and  Smith, 
whom  I  immediately  recognized,  judge  and  jury,  counsel 
and  spectators.  It  was  a  brilliant  winter 's  day,  and  the 
court-room  seemed  full  of  light  and  people.  For  the  first 
time  I  noticed  how  differently  a  crowd  looks  when  you 


78  EARLY  MEMORIES 

are  one  of  the  crowd,  and  when  you  are  the  object  of  the 
crowd's  concentrated  gaze.  Mr.  Ives,  the  district  attor- 
ney, a  very  clever  man,  examined  me  in  chief — that  is,  he 
let  me  tell  my  story,  which  I  did  honestly  I  know,  and 
clearly  I  think,  without  either  diminution  or  embroidery. 
I  had  a  good  memory,  the  facts  to  which  I  was  to  testify 
had  made  a  sharp  impression,  and  I  had  also  told  the  tale 
many  times.  Mrs.  Bourne  (or  Mrs.  Rice)  had  employed 
strong  counsel  for  the  defence:  Judge  Abbott  and  Mr. 
Charles  Blake,  then  a  rising  man  at  the  Boston  bar.  Mr. 
Blake  cross-examined  me.  He  did  not  shake  my  story,  for 
there  was  nothing  that  could  be  shaken,  so  he  resorted  to  an 
old  device  to  confuse  me.  He  asked  me  where  the  second 
buggy  stood.  That  I  told  him  exactly.  Then:  "Was  the 
curtain  in  the  back  up  or  down?  How  far  away  was  it? 
Was  it  fifty  yards?  Was  it  seventy-five?  Might  it  have 
been  a  hundred  yards?"  and  so  on.  To  all  which  I  replied 
truthfully:  "I  don't  know."  Suddenly  I  heard  a  deep 
voice  on  my  right  say :  "  Mr.  Blake,  I  think  that  will  do.  It 
is  perfectly  evident  that  the  boy  is  telling  the  truth."  It 
was  the  judge — Judge  Lord,  very  well  known  in  his  day;  a 
man  of  sharp  wit  and  rough  tongue,  called  in  capital  cases  a 
"hanging  judge";  respected  but  feared  by  the  bar  and  after- 
ward raised  to  the  Supreme  Bench  of  the  State.  He  was  a 
strong  and  able  judge  and  a  sound  lawyer.  He  may  have 
been  rough  with  members  of  the  bar,  but  he  was  very  kind 
to  me.  At  all  events,  he  ended  Mr.  Blake  and  I  left  the 
stand.  I  had  hardly  reached  the  witness-room  when  I 
burst  into  tears — I  was  only  eleven — and  said :  "  Oh,  I  made 
a  mistake;  I  must  go  back,"  and  without  waiting  I  rushed 
again  into  the  court-room,  where,  regardless  of  everybody, 
I  addressed  the  judge,  whom  I  looked  upon  as  my  next 
friend,  and  said:  "I  made  one  mistake.  May  I  correct  it?" 
"Certainly,  my  boy,"  said  Judge  Lord;  "say  anything  you 


BOYHOOD:  1860-1867  79 

please."  So  I  corrected  the  mistake,  which  I  have  entirely 
forgotten — it  was  something  quite  trivial — and  then  left 
the  court-room  for  the  second  time,  much  elated. 

In  due  course  I  received  my  watch,  an  English  Frodsham 
with  a  hunting-case,  which  I  began  to  wear  when  I  was 
eighteen  and  have  worn  ever  since,  and  which  had  my  name 
and  the  date  of  the  trial  engraved  on  the  inside.  Mr.  Rice 
also  gave  me  a  seal  ring,  so  that  I  felt  very  proud  of  my  per- 
formance and  very  rich  owing  to  my  witness  fees,  which, 
as  I  have  said,  represented  to  me  at  that  time  untold  wealth. 
Nickerson  and  Smith  were  convicted  and  got  seven  years 
apiece,  which  they  avoided  by  jumping  their  heavy  bail 
furnished  by  Mrs.  Bourne,  and  thoughtfully  betaking  them- 
selves to  Canada.  That  I  might  have  incurred  their  hos- 
tility, for  I  was  a  fatal  witness,  did  not  occur  to  me  at  the 
time,  but  some  years  afterwards,  curiously  enough,  it  came 
over  me  that  they  might  return,  the  last  thing  they  would 
or  could  have  done,  and  take  an  exemplary  revenge  upon 
my  precious  person.  This  gave  me  some  uneasy  moments, 
especially  at  night  just  before  going  to  sleep.  I  suppose 
those  two  men  never  thought  of  me  again,  except  as  a  bit 
of  ill  luck  in  their  estimable  careers.  The,  hero  of  the  little 
drama  came  again  into  my  life  many  years  later.  Returning 
from  Europe  Allen  Rice  bought  the  North  American  Review, 
and  converting  that  sober  quarterly  into  a  monthly,  filled 
it  with  conspicuous  names,  articles  of  current  interest,  and 
made  it  very  successful  financially  and  for  the  purposes  of 
its  editor.  He  took  an  active  interest  in  politics,  was  a 
strong  Republican  and  a  warm  admirer  of  Mr.  Elaine.  By 
President  Harrison  he  was  appointed  minister  to  Russia, 
and  died  suddenly  in  New  York  just  on  the  eve  of  his  de- 
parture for  his  new  post.  I  saw  Allen  Rice  on  various  occa- 
sions, dined  at  his  house  and  wrote  for  his  Review.  He 
seemed  glad  to  renew  the  acquaintance  of  boyhood,  and  we 


80  EARLY  MEMORIES 

came  together  like  old  friends  who  despite  this  fact  had 
never  met  before  and  had  no  past  in  common.  The  inci- 
dents connected  with  our  last  sight  of  each  other  were,  I 
need  hardly  say,  never  alluded  to. 

The  court-room  at  Lawrence  was  my  first  appearance  in 
public.  I  have  faced  many  audiences  since  then,  but  none 
which  I  have  dreaded,  and  very  few  where  my  utterances 
were  so  efficient  in  immediate  results  as  they  were  at  this 
trial.  It  was  my  first  and  last  appearance  as  a  witness  in 
court. 


CHAPTER  V 
BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867 

IN  1861  I  left  Mr.  Sullivan's  and  went  to  Mr.  Dixwell's 
private  Latin  school,  where  I  was  to  be  prepared  in  due  time 
for  college.  Mr.  Dixwell  had  been  head  master  of  the  Public 
Latin  school,  the  famous  and  historic  school  founded  in 
Boston  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  Puritan  settlement. 
He  had  left  that  position  to  establish  a  school  of  his  own,  in 
which  undertaking  he  was  highly  and  deservedly  successful. 
For  five  years  he  was  a  very  important  figure  in  my  daily 
life,  and  I  remember  him  well  both  at  that  time  and  after- 
wards. I  regarded  him  then,  of  course,  as  a  tribal  enemy 
with  whom  there  was  necessarily  perpetual  war;  but  I  am 
sure  that  I  always  respected  him,  which  was  by  no  means 
true  of  some  of  my  other  masters,  both  in  school  and  college. 
Mr.  Dixwell  was  a  direct  descendant  of  John  Dixwell,  the 
regicide,  who  sensibly  took  refuge  in  Connecticut  when  the 
estimable  Charles  II  came  to  the  throne.  I  have  thought 
since,  perhaps  fancifully,  that  a  certain  stiffness  and  rigidity 
which  were  observable  in  my  master,  who  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  martinet  and  given  to  severe  sarcasm  at  the  expense  of 
stupid  or  disorderly  boys,  may  have  been  inherited  from 
his  conspicuously  Puritan  ancestor,  who  had  passed  sen- 
tence of  death  upon  a  king.  But  what  I  never  doubted 
was  that  Mr.  Dixwell  was  a  thorough  gentleman,  albeit  a 
rigorous  one,  and  that  he  was  also  a  scholar  and  an  accom- 
plished man.  I  can  see  him  now,  a  slight,  active  figure, 

81 


82  EARLY  MEMORIES 

walking  briskly  into  the  school  in  the  morning,  always  most 
carefully  although  quietly  dressed,  and  then  mounting  the 
platform  and  calling  the  school  to  order  in  a  clear,  dry  voice. 
I  looked  upon  him  with  hostility  owing  to  our  official  rela- 
tions, but  that  hostility  was  tempered,  as  I  have  said,  with 
respect  and  also  with  a  little  fear.  He  exercised,  I  am  sure,  a 
good  influence  upon  me,  for  he  had  no  patience  with  sloven- 
liness of  mind ;  he  also  taught  well,  as  I  found  when  I  reached 
the  top  of  the  school  and  came  under  him.  He  was  an  espe- 
cially good  critic  and  instructor  in  declamation,  which  oc- 
curred once  a  month,  and  was  an  exercise  in  which  I  began 
very  badly  and  ended  by  doing  very  well,  finally  winning 
the  highest  marks,  thanks  to  my  master's  ministrations.  I 
am  sure  that  I  write  dispassionately  of  Mr.  Dixwell,  for  I 
was  never  in  favor  with  him,  and  indeed  there  was  no  reason 
why  I  should  have  been.  The  first  year  that  I  was  in  the 
school,  mainly  I  think  to  gratify  my  father,  I  worked  hard 
and  came  out  first  in  my  class  and  third  in  a  school  of  over 
fifty  boys.  I  found  in  an  old  school-book  belonging  to  my 
friend  Sturgis  Bigelow  a  list  of  the  class  at  that  time  with 
appropriate  comments  appended  to  each  name  by  some 
other  youth.  These  comments  were  without  exception  un- 
favorable, and  I  was  described  as  "A  miserable  little  dig," 
an  unfeigned  tribute  to  my  scholastic  eminence,  which  I 
soon  ceased  to  deserve,  for  my  high  rank  ended  with  that 
first  year.  I  found  that  I  could  do  "well  enough"  with 
very  little  effort,  and  as  very  little  effort  suited  my  tastes 
I  stood  "well  enough"  during  the  rest  of  my  school  years, 
but  never  again  upon  the  high  places;  while  on  the  conduct 
list,  in  company  with  one  or  two  other  choice  spirits,  I  sank 
to  the  bottom,  a  pre-eminence  which  I  readily  maintained. 
I  received  the  usual  amount  of  what  was  then  called 
education,  and  which  was  certainly  quite  as  good  as  what  is 
called  education  now.  The  old  system  was  in  force.  We 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  83 

spent  a  great  deal  of  time  on  the  Latin  and  Greek  grammars 
and  mastered  them  thoroughly.  We  learned  to  read  and 
write  Latin  and  to  read  Greek  with  reasonable  ease,  going 
as  far  as  Virgil,  Horace,  and  Cicero  in  the  one  and  in  the 
other  concluding  with  Felton's  Greek  Reader,  which  con- 
tained selections  from  nearly  all  the  principal  poets  and 
prose-writers  of  Greece.  To  show  the  range  of  Felton's 
selections  I  will  merely  mention  that  when  I  was  examined 
for  admission  to  Harvard  I  was  called  upon  to  construe  the 
famous  fragment  of  Simonides  describing  Danae  in  the  chest. 
In  addition  to  the  classics  we  were  drilled  in  algebra  and 
plane  geometry,  and  were  given  a  smattering  of  French  as 
well  as  a  course  in  Greek  and  Roman  history.  That  we 
should  learn  anything  of  modern  history  or  of  the  history 
of  our  own  country  was  thought  quite  needless. 

All  those  dreary  hours  spent  over  the  Latin  and  Greek 
grammars  seemed  then  a  waste  of  time,  and  yet  as  mere 
discipline  they  were,  I  think,  as  good  as  anything  else,  and 
gave  at  least  a  solid  foundation  upon  which  to  build  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  classics  if  the  recipient  were  so  inclined.  Sturgis 
Bigelow  said  to  me  not  long  ago:  "After  all,  we  were  pretty 
well  educated.  We  learned  to  swim  and  ride,  to  box  and 
fence  and  handle  a  boat."  As  a  commentary  upon  our  edu- 
cation nothing  could  be  better.  We  really  learned  "  to  swim 
and  ride,  to  box  and  fence  and  handle  a  boat,"  quite  apart 
from  school,  and  they  were  all  things  well  worth  learning. 
We  also  made  many  enduring  friendships  in  the  school 
which  went  on  through  life.  Among  the  boys  whom  I  saw 
most  at  Mr.  DixwelTs  were  Frank  Chad  wick,  who  had  been 
with  me  at  Mr.  Sullivan's,  destined  to  be  an  artist,  then  and 
now  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  companions,  a  friend  of 
much  earlier  days,  and  a  neighbor  at  Nahant,  as  I  have 
already  said;  Frank  Amory,  one  of  my  lifelong  friends, 
whom  I  had  known  more  or  less  before,  but  now  we  sat  on 


84  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  same  bench,  and  when  we  went  to  college  we  roomed 
together  for  the  last  three  years;  Edward  Burgess,  dead  in 
his  prime,  distinguished  later  as  an  entomologist,  and  still 
later  of  world-wide  fame  as  a  great  yacht  designer.  There 
too  was  William  Lawrence,  now  Bishop  of  Massachusetts, 
whom  I  had  also  known  before,  but  at  Mr.  Dixwell's  school 
we  were  to  sit  side  by  side  for  six  years,  as  we  did  later  for 
four  more  years  in  college.  It  would  take  too  long  to  name 
the  many  others  above  and  below  me  in  the  school  whom  I 
first  met  then  and  with  whom  I  became  intimate.  It  is 
more  interesting  to  try  at  least  to  give  an  account  of  what 
Gyas  and  Cloanthus  did  than  simply  to  catalogue  the  fact 
that  they  existed  and  were  strong. 

Bigelow's  description  of  our  real  education  was  in  the 
main  correct;  it  was  largely  physical  and  very  enjoyable. 
We  all  swam  at  an  early  age,  and  at  Nahant  we  passed  most 
of  our  time  in  the  water  or  on  it,  for  we  also  at  an  early  age 
learned  to  row  and  to  sail  a  boat.  Swimming  was  the  fa- 
vorite amusement.  We  would  strip  and  plunge  in  anywhere 
and  at  any  time.  I  well  remember  one  occasion  when  some 
of  my  friends  and  I,  having  partaken  of  a  heavy  luncheon 
at  my  house,  were  just  leaving  the  table;  my  father  asked 
what  we  were  going  to  do.  We  replied  that  we  were  going 
in  swimming.  There  was  protest  from  the  older  persons 
present,  who  had  a  queer  elderly  idea  that  violent  exercise, 
and  especially  swimming,  immediately  after  eating  was 
likely  to  produce  unfortunate  results.  Finally  my  father 
said :  "  Go  and  ask  Doctor  Bigelow;  if  he  does  not  object  you 
may  go  in. "  Off  we  hastened  to  Doctor  Bigelow,  who  was  then 
living  near-by.  We  found  him  and  put  our  question.  He 
looked  at  us  with  a  quizzical  smile  and  said :  "  I  should  not  do 
it  myself,  but  nothing  hurts  boys.  Yes,  you  may  go  in."  So 
we  ran  off,  thinking  Doctor  Bigelow  a  very  wise  man  despite 
the  fact  that  he  was  old,  and  straightway  went  in  swimming. 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  85 

No  evil  results  followed.  The  diagnosis  was  accurate.  "0 
fortunati  nimium!"  If  boys  could  only  realize  the  inesti- 
mable good  fortune  of  being  a  young,  healthy,  growing  ani- 
mal perhaps  they  would  cherish  it  more  than  they  do.  The 
swimming  was  also  accompanied  by  the  joy  of  lying  naked 
on  the  warm  rocks  under  the  hot  sun,  and  thus  gradually 
tanning  our  skins  a  dark  brown.  Later  in  college  there  was 
much  competition  among  the  studious  youth  in  coloring  as 
black  as  possible  clay  or  meerschaum  pipes,  but  it  was  far 
better  sport  to  color  our  skins  in  the  air  and  sunlight,  as 
well  as  infinitely  more  healthful. 

I  do  not  remember  the  exact  time  when  I  first  had  a  sail- 
boat, but  it  must  have  been  when  I  was  about  thirteen  years 
old,  and  I  had  a  boatman  who  went  with  me  and  taught  me, 
and  from  whose  guardianship  I  was,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
eager  to  escape.  One  day  Frank  Chadwick  and  I  were  out 
with  him,  and  he,  wishing  to  go  ashore,  tied  the  boat  up  at 
the  wharf  and  departed,  after  making  us  promise  to  wait 
just  where  we  were.  The  promise  broke  as  soon  as  the  boat- 
man was  out  of  sight,  and  we  cast  off  and  began  tacking  back 
and  forth  in  the  bay.  While  thus  pleasantly  and  happily 
engaged  to  our  own  complete  satisfaction  a  big  New  York 
yacht,  The  Idler,  came  in,  and  as  she  was  running  wing  and 
wing,  her  great  sails  took  all  the  wind  out  of  our  little  one 
just  as  we  were  crossing  her  course.  We  lost  steerageway, 
and  The  Idler  saw  us  too  late  to  sheer  off.  We  beheld  Fate 
rushing  upon  us,  knew  not  what  to  do  and  did  nothing.  I 
saw  a  gentleman  whom  I  knew,  Mr.  William  Otis,  run  up 
to  the  bow  of  The  Idler.  He  recognized  us  and  called  out 
"Jump  overboard!"  Having  no  views  of  my  own,  over  I 
went  and  Chadwick  after  me,  our  little  boat  being  swept 
aside  by  the  yacht  and  not  seriously  injured.  I  remember 
a  bad  moment  before  I  rose  to  the  surface,  when  it  flashed 
over  me  that  I  might  come  up  under  the  yacht;  but  in  an 


86  EARLY  MEMORIES 

instant  I  had  my  head  out  of  water,  saw  the  big  black  hull 
gliding  by,  and  then  was  quite  at  my  ease.  We  paddled 
about  and  were  picked  up  in  a  few  minutes,  and  I  remember 
Mr.  Otis  saying  that  he  had  alarmed  the  people  on  the  yacht 
when  he  told  us  to  jump  overboard,  but  as  he  knew  very 
well  that  in  the  water  we  should  be  quite  safe  he  did  it 
without  hesitation.  I  and  my  friends  soon  learned  to  sail  a 
boat  very  competently,  and  later  I  became  the  owner  of  a 
little  sloop  upon  which  I  passed  many  hours  every  summer 
until  I  left  college. 

We  boys  in  those  days  went  also  much  into  the  country, 
for  there  was  real  country  then  within  easy  reach  of  Boston, 
and  we  gave  many  spare  hours  to  walks  and  expeditions  of 
various  sorts,  often,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  pursuit  of  birds7 
eggs,  to  which  we  were  wont  to  devote  our  Saturdays  and 
holidays.  Then  later  we  went  shooting  on  the  cape  and  else- 
where, and  some  of  us,  like  Bigelow  and  Chadwick,  became 
capital  shots,  which  I  never  did,  although  I  gave  a  great  deal 
of  time  to  both  the  shotgun  and  the  rifle.  These  weapons 
were  put  into  our  hands  very  early,  as  it  seems  to  me,  and, 
as  I  guess,  through  the  influence  of  Doctor  Bigelow. 

Altogether,  when  I  look  back  upon  it  I  think  that  we 
had  a  great  deal  of  vigorous  outdoor  life,  which  is  better 
than  many  forms  of  education.  We  also  played  all  games 
assiduously — football,  baseball,  hockey,  and  the  rest,  varied 
in  winter  by  coasting,  skating,  and  savage  snowball  fights 
on  the  Common  with  boys  from  the  South  End  and  the 
back  of  Beacon  Hill,  whom  we  called  "muckers,"  and  who 
usually  defeated  us  owing  purely  to  superior  numbers,  as  I 
have  always  religiously  believed.  I  was  never  very  apt  or 
successful  at  these  games  and  sports  except  in  steering  a 
double-runner  which  I  had  built  and  planned  myself  and 
which  I  managed  with  skill,  but  I  engaged  in  them  all  with 
the  utmost  energy,  and  that,  after  all,  is  the  really  important 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  87 

thing.  The  merit  of  athletic  sports  is  not  what  they  bring 
to  the  nines  and  elevens  and  eights  who  are  pictured  and 
advertised  in  the  newspapers.  Indeed,  to  the  champions 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  they  are  often  harmful,  both 
from  the  physical  strain  and  the  fleeting  notoriety.  The 
true  value  of  athletic  sports  is  to  the  average  boy  like 
myself,  who  never  arrives  at  any  distinction,  but  who  in 
this  way  learns  to  like  rough-and-tumble  games  and  to  be 
fond  of  vigorous  and  wholesome  exercise  and  of  outdoor 
life. 

I  have  left  to  the  last  the  form  of  outdoor  sport  which 
I  liked  best  at  the  beginning  and  which  has  been  my  friend 
and  my  enjoyment  all  through  my  life,  and  that  is  riding. 
My  father  owned  and  drove  fast  trotting-horses  and  also 
rode  regularly  with  my  sister,  so  that  we  always  had  a  stable 
full  of  horses  of  various  kinds.  As  far  back  as  I  can  remem- 
ber I  used  to  be  put  upon  one  of  my  father's  or  sister's 
horses  and  allowed  to  ride  it  round  the  yard  at  Nahant. 
Then  came  riding  lessons  in  Boston  under  the  instruction 
of  Mr.  Thuolt,  a  follower  of  Kossuth,  a  living  and  very 
robust  reminder  of  the  nearness  of  the  great  year  of  1848. 
He  was  a  Hungarian  and  had  served  in  the  Austrian  cavalry, 
a  tall,  large,  fine-looking  man,  very  kind  to  small  boys. 
He  also  gave  us  lessons  in  the  broadsword,  and  I  kept  for  a 
long  time  the  wooden  representative  of  that  weapon  with 
which  I  used  to  practise  the  cuts  and  passes. 

At  last,  in  1861,  my  father  gave  me  a  horse  of  my  own. 
He  was  a  small  horse,  as  big  as  a  polo-pony,  of  pure  Morgan 
stock,  the  famous  Vermont  strain,  very  handsome,  very  spir- 
ited, very  fast  in  all  gaits,  and  very  intelligent.  He  learned 
to  know  me  as  if  he  had  been  a  dog,  and  would  do  anything 
I  asked  of  him.  I  was,  as  I  have  said,  fond  of  firearms  and 
I  trained  "Pip" — he  was  named  Pip  because  my  father 
said  I  had  such  "Great  Expectations"  of  him — to  stand  so 


88  EARLY  MEMORIES 

that  I  could  fire  a  pistol  from  his  back,  which  not  only  satis- 
fied my  sense  of  the  general  fitness  of  things,  as  derived 
from  Mayne  Reid,  but  also  enabled  me  on  one  occasion  to 
kill  a  dangerous  dog  which  used  to  spring  out  at  me  on  a 
certain  country  road.  I  cannot  resist  saying  as  much  as 
this  about  one  of  the  best  and  best-loved  friends  of  my 
boyhood.  I  rode  him  for  many  years,  and  when  I  outgrew 
him  drove  him  in  a  light  wagon.  He  lived  to  a  ripe  age; 
he  was  never  "sick  or  sorry  "  for  a  day,  so  far  as  I  remember, 
and  he  never  refused  a  fence  or  declined  to  go  anywhere 
when  I  asked  him,  either  to  take  a  jump  or  to  follow  me. 

The  epoch-making  summer  when  Pip  was  presented  to 
me  was  also  marked  by  the  fact  that  we  passed  it  at  New- 
port instead  of  at  Nahant.  I  think  my  father  had  an  idea 
of  buying  a  house  there  and  wanted  to  try  the  place  for  a 
summer.  But  that  which  makes  Newport  in  1861  truly 
memorable  to  me  is  that  there  I  really  learned  to  ride,  for 
when  I  had  got  a  firm  seat  Parker,  our  English  coachman, 
put  up  some  bars  in  the  lane  behind  our  house  and  taught 
me  to  jump,  for  which  I  have  always  held  him  in  grateful 
remembrance.  Newport  itself  was  not  to  my  taste  at  that 
time.  Its  character  and  its  life  were  much  the  same  then 
as  now,  but  the  scale  of  living  was  far  more  modest.  The 
great  houses  and  small  palaces  of  the  Newport  of  to-day 
had  then  no  existence,  although  there  were  some  handsome 
villas,  the  most  considerable  being  that  of  Mr.  Bareda,  the 
Peruvian  minister,  which,  with  its  terrace,  excited  my  youth- 
ful admiration.  Bellevue  Avenue  was  not  yet  entirely 
built  up.  Bateman's  Point  was  reached  by  a  long  country 
drive  among  outlying  farms  destitute  of  houses,  and  every- 
thing else  was  proportionate.  The  bathing  was  the  same 
as  now;  the  gayety,  the  society,  the  "dull,  mechanic  pacing 
to  and  fro"  which  was  called  driving  on  the  avenue,  were  all 
much  as  they  are  at  the  present  time.  There  was  a  great 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  89 

deal  of  fine  dressing,  an  abundance  of  handsome  horses  and 
carriages  from  four-in-hands  down,  and  all  the  paraphernalia 
which  have  since  been  developed  to  such  an  amazing  degree. 
But  if  the  scale  was  smaller  in  those  days  there  was,  I  believe, 
better  taste  as  well  as  less  vulgarity  and  ostentation  than  are 
seen  there  to-day.  The  large  hotels  with  which  every 
American  watering-place  has  begun  its  career  were  not  yet 
extinct.  The  Ocean  House,  the  Fillmore,  and  the  Bellevue 
were  still  in  active  existence,  but  the  Atlantic  House  was 
being  prepared,  I  think,  for  midshipmen,  as,  owing  to  the 
war,  the  Academy  was  to  be  transferred  from  Annapolis  to 
Newport.  The  Academy  was  not  formally  transferred  until 
October,  1861,  but  the  midshipmen  were  at  Fort  Adams,  I 
believe,  and  when  I  was  again  in  Newport,  in  1864,  they  were 
occupying  the  old  Atlantic  Hotel. 

How  my  family  enjoyed  their  summer  there  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  regarded  Newport  with  great  disfavor.  I 
missed  my  friends,  I  disliked  the  artificial  life,  I  preferred 
the  rocks  of  Nahant  and  deep  water  to  swimming  in  bathing 
clothes  from  a  flat  beach.  I  found  some  compensation 
in  catching  bluefish  and  in  sailing  about  the  harbor,  but 
the  alleviation  was  slight.  It  was  therefore  with  joy  that 
I  returned  to  Boston,  especially  as  the  vacation  was  not 
quite  over  and  I  was  able  to  go  to  Nahant  for  a  few  days' 
stay  at  our  gardener's  house,  which  I  particularly  liked  to 
do,  and  pass  my  days  with  Chadwick.  While  I  was  there, 
on  the  night  of  September  11,  the  huge  wooden  barrack 
of  a  hotel  with  which  Mr.  Paran  Stevens  had  intended  to 
convert  Nahant  into  a  fashionable  watering-place  took  fire 
and  burned  to  the  ground.  A  very  splendid  fire  it  was,  seen 
far  up  and  down  the  coast  and  by  distant  vessels  out  at  sea 
as  it  blazed  up  on  its  lonely  promontory.  I  say  politely 
"took  fire,"  but  the  hotel  had  been  wholly  unoccupied  for 
some  weeks,  and  I  fear  it  may  be  said,  as  General  Butler  re- 


90  EARLY  MEMORIES 

marked  of  the  baking  machinery,  "It  was  a  failure  and  of 
course  it  burned."  The  hotel  had  failed  utterly,  and  Mr. 
Paran  Stevens,  as  Bishop  Clark,  of  Rhode  Island,  said  to  me 
years  afterwards,  "got  out  in  what  is  civilly  called  an  adroit 
manner,"  leaving  his  partners  with  the  property  and  the 
debts.  After  the  fire  the  estate  came  on  the  market  and 
my  father  made  an  effort  to  induce  some  of  his  friends  in 
Nahant  to  join  in  buying  it  in  order  to  rebuild  the  old  small 
hotel.  The  attempt  came  to  nothing,  because  in  that  war- 
time nobody  wished  to  buy  Nahant  land,  so  my  father 
bought  it  himself,  gave  up  all  idea  of  going  to  Newport,  and 
began  to  prepare  the  place  for  his  own  house.  He  did  not 
live  to  carry  out  his  plans,  but  in  later  years  my  sister  and 
I  built  our  houses  there,  left  our  old  villa  which  belonged 
to  my  grandfather,  and  have  lived  at  East  Point  ever 
since. 

My  account  of  sports  and  outdoor  life  has  led  me  to 
Newport  and  back  to  the  Nahant  hotel  fire,  but  I  would 
not  have  it  supposed,  as  I  wish  to  give  all  the  influences 
which  were  at  work  on  my  life,  that  I  had  no  other  occupa- 
tion than  sports  and  athletics,  supplemented  by  general 
mischief  and  destructiveness  in  my  idler  moments. 

There  was,  in  the  first  place,  one  occupation  neither 
athletic  nor  physical  in  its  nature  from  which  I  derived 
much  excitement,  a  great  deal  of  amusement,  and  I  venture 
to  think  some  real  information  and  instruction.  This  was 
going  to  the  theatre,  for  which  I  came  by  accident  to  have 
unusual  opportunities.  The  first  time  I  was  ever  taken 
to  the  theatre  was  to  see  the  pantomime  and  ballet  of 
"Cinderella."  I  remember  the  scene  of  the  kitchen  and 
the  child  by  the  fire,  then  the  pumpkin  turning  into  a 
coach,  and  then  nothing  more.  I  was  told  long  afterwards 
that  at  that  point  I  fell  heavily  asleep,  and  in  that  condition 
was  carried  home  and  put  to  bed.  But  after  this  first 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:   1860-1867  91 

broken  recollection,  the  date  of  which  I  cannot  fix  definitely, 
theatrical  memories  grow  very  numerous.  Those  which  fill 
the  largest  space  relate,  of  course,  to  the  Ravels,  the  famous 
brothers,  four  at  first,  and  then  gradually  dwindling  as  each 
retired  until  only  one  remained.  The  rope-dancing  and 
tumbling,  the  athletic  feats,  and  the  ballets,  which  formed 
part  of  the  performances,  were  like  everybody  else's,  and 
although  they  filled  my  childhood  with  wonder  I  have  seen 
all  these  things  done  a  thousand  times,  and  done  much 
better  and  with  greater  difficulties  and  larger  risks.  But 
the  Ravels  themselves  in  their  pantomimes  I  have  never 
seen  equalled,  and  I  have  watched  such  performances  care- 
fully in  many  places.  Their  agility,  their  humor,  their 
dumb  show  were  not  only  perfect  in  themselves,  but  of  ex- 
traordinary dramatic  quality.  Any  one  who  recalls  Fran- 
gois  or  Gabriel  in  the  two  little  plays  entitled  "Pongo"  and 
"Jocko/'  or  the  "Wonderful  Apes/'  will  understand  what 
I  mean,  for  in  those  impersonations  it  was  not  the  feats  of 
dexterity  and  agility  which  they  performed,  but  the  acting 
which  impressed  one  most.  Antoine  Ravel  was  the  best 
and  most  comic  clown  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  have  seen 
many.  All  his  fun,  too,  was  in  pantomime,  so  that  he  had 
to  amuse  his  audience  solely  by  action  and  play  of  feature, 
without  the  aid  of  the  aged,  clumsy,  and  sometimes  coarse 
jokes  of  the  clown  of  the  circus  ring.  In  the  "Magic 
Trumpet"  and  the  "White  Knight"  he  was  especially 
effective,  but  I  also  remember  being  thrilled  by  the  exciting 
scenes  of  "Bianco,"  by  "Raoul,  or  the  Magic  Star,"  by 
"Robert  Macaire,"  and  by  "Mazulm,  or  the  Night  Owl," 
all  long  since  vanished  from  every  stage. 

The  first  serious  play  I  ever  witnessed  was  "Julius 
Caesar."  My  grandfather  took  me  to  see  it  at  the  Howard 
Athenaeum,  because  he  said  that  I  ought  to  see  that  play 
when  given  by  such  a  company.  I  was  very  young  at  the 


92  EARLY  MEMORIES 

time,  but  I  enjoyed  it  all  hugely  and  was  deeply  stirred.  It 
was  indeed  a  remarkable  cast.  E.  L.  Davenport;  a  first- 
rate  actor  of  the  old  school,  was  Brutus,  Edwin  Booth  was 
Cassius,  Lawrence  Barrett  was  Mark  Antony,  and  John 
McCullough  was  Caesar.  They  were  all  young  men  except 
Davenport,  and  all  rose  to  the  first  rank,  Booth,  of  course, 
being  the  greatest  and  even  then  the  star.  I  did  not  fall 
asleep  that  afternoon,  and  every  part  of  the  performance  is 
as  vivid  to  me  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  I  have  seen  the  play 
many  times  since,  but  I  doubt  if  it  has  ever  been  given 
better  than  on  that  occasion,  so  memorable  to  me  as  my 
first  experience  of  a  great  play  worthily  enacted.  Brutus 
and  Cassius,  of  course,  impressed  me  most,  but  I  have  never 
forgotten  Antony  in  a  green  toga  delivering  the  great  ora- 
tion. How  well  Barrett  did  it  I  do  not  know,  but  I  remem- 
ber that  it  made  me  eager  to  join  the  Roman  mob  and 
avenge  the  death  of  Caesar  on  the  spot. 

My  father  and  grandfather  took  me  to  see  the  Ravels 
and  Shakespeare,  and  having  thus  acquired  a  taste  for  the 
theatre  I  soon  began  to  gratify  it  independently.  Those 
were  the  days  of  stock  companies,  of  standard  plays,  and  of 
changing  bills.  "Long  runs"  had  not  yet  become  predomi- 
nant, and  the  stage  was  not  then  filled,  as  it  so  largely  is 
to-day,  with  comic  operas  of  various  degrees  of  inanity, 
with  variety  shows  and  exhibitions  of  chorus  girls7  figures 
and  dresses,  or  of  the  absence  of  both.  The  Boston  Museum 
had  an  excellent  stock  company,  the  chief  figure  in  which 
was  William  Warren,  a  comedian  of  the  best  school  and 
highest  order.  He  was  finest  in  high  comedy,  but  he  was  also 
admirable  in  farces;  and  many  a  one  by  Morton,  whose  debt 
to  Labiche  I  did  not  then  realize,  have  I  seen  him  give.  I 
must  not,  however,  confuse  early  recollections  with  the 
later  ones  of  a  time  when  I  was  better  able  to  appreciate 
Warren's  delightful  art.  What  I  preferred  in  those  young 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  93 

days  was  melodrama.  I  discovered  that  a  seat  in  the  gal- 
lery cost  only  twelve  and  one-half  cents,  or  ninepence,  as  it 
was  called  at  that  time,  and  many  a  Wednesday  or  Satur- 
day afternoon,  in  company  with  Frank  Jackson  or  Russell 
Sullivan,  whose  fondness  for  the  drama  corresponded  with 
mine,  did  I  betake  myself  to  the  somewhat  heated  atmos- 
phere of  the  upper  regions  of  the  Museum  and  revel  in  the 
performance  of  "Jeanie  Deans"  or  the  "Colleen  Bawn." 
Those  happen  to  be  the  plays  which  recur  to  me  most  vividly, 
although  I  do  not  know  exactly  why  it  should  be  so.  In 
thinking  of  the  former  I  still  feel  a  thrill  when  I  recall  the 
scene  on  the  heath  or  that  in  which  Jeanie  meets  Queen 
Caroline.  Perhaps  my  affection  for  Scott  made  the  play 
clearer  to  me.  As  to  the  "Colleen  Bawn,"  we  were  so  cap- 
tivated by  it  that  Russell  Sullivan  and  I  rigged  up  some 
scenery  in  my  play-room  and  there  gave  an  abbreviated 
version  of  Mr.  Boucicault's  work,  consisting  chiefly  of  the 
attempted  drowning  of  the  Colleen  Bawn  and  her  rescue 
by  Myles  na  Coppaleen,  or  "Myles  of  the  Ponies,"  as  the 
play-bill  carefully  informed  those  who  were  so  unfortunate 
as  to  be  unfamiliar  with  the  Irish  language.  In  this 
performance  Russell  Sullivan,  destined  to  write  for  the 
stage  more  than  one  successful  play,  took  the  part  of  the 
Colleen  and  I  played  that  of  Myles.  Who  was  induced  to 
take  the  necessary  part  of  the  villain,  Danny  Mann,  I  do 
not  recall,  but  nothing  less  than  the  hero  satisfied  me,  and 
as  the  proprietor  of  the  theatre  I  laid  claim  to  it.  The 
audiences  I  think  were  small,  consisting  of  a  few  other  boys 
and  friendly  servants,  but  I  am  sure  that  the  drowning  and 
rescue  with  the  plunge  of  Myles  into  the  water,  represented 
by  parallel  strips  of  paper  of  proper  color  as  on  the  stage, 
gave  great  satisfaction  to  the  performers,  if  to  no  one  else. 
I  have  indeed  very  tender  recollections  of  the  old  Museum 
as  the  source  of  many  pleasures.  It  had,  besides  the  theatre, 


94  EARLY  MEMORIES 

a  real  museum  filled  with  all  sorts  of  curiosities,  strange 
pictures,  and  oddities  of  every  kind  brought  chiefly  from 
Polynesia  and  Africa.  The  museum  part  served  to  soothe 
the  susceptibilities  of  persons  from  the  country  who  thought 
it  wrong  to  go  to  a  theatre  but  not  to  a  museum.  If  a  the- 
atrical performance  happened  to  be  going  on  within  the 
precincts  of  a  museum  these  worthy  people  could  under  that 
condition  witness  it  without  endangering  their  spiritual  or 
moral  welfare.  All  along  the  front  of  the  museum  building 
ran  three  or  four  rows  of  lights,  gas-burners  in  white  globes, 
and  thus  illuminated  it  seemed  to  me  a  place  of  splendor 
and  enchantment,  full  of  a  vast  promise  of  strange  and  mys- 
terious delights.  When  the  building  was  torn  down,  some 
years  since,  I  felt  a  real  pang  at  the  disappearance  of  those 
lights,  for  I  knew  that  no  others  existed  or  ever  would  exist 
which  could  give  me  the  same  sensations  or  awaken  the 
same  fascinating  associations.  Just  before  the  final  disap- 
pearance of  the  building  I  noticed  one  day,  as  I  was  passing 
by,  the  red  flag  of  the  auctioneer.  I  dropped  in  and  found 
that  the  old  properties  of  the  theatre  were  being  sold.  It 
was  a  strange  collection:  worn-out  dresses  of  velvet  and 
tinsel  in  which  courtiers  had  once  strutted  in  brief  and  gas- 
lit  brilliancy,  musty  costumes  of  peasants,  old  guns,  hal- 
berds, drums,  and  all  the  panoply  of  mock  war,  pasteboard 
goblets  from  which  the  gilding  had  dropped  away,  a  strange 
and  motley  collection,  sordid,  worn,  dirty,  valueless.  I 
thought  how  often  these  melancholy  relics  must  in  their  day 
have  dazzled  and  deceived  my  eyes,  and  I  confess  I  turned 
away  with  sad  reflections  in  my  heart  and  a  wish  that  I  had 
for  a  moment  the  gift  of  Charles  Lamb  so  that  I  might  have 
done  justice  to  all  these  poor  old  vanities  and  pretences, 
dusty  and  decayed,  lying  there  in  the  harsh,  unsparing  light 
of  day,  and  to  the  tender  sentiment,  the  pleasant  memories 
which  they  inspired  in  at  least  one  of  those  who  were  idly 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  95 

looking  at  them  in  the  hour  when  they  were  despised  and 
rejected  of  men. 

Let  me  not  forget  here  another  species  of  performance 
far  removed  from  the  legitimate  drama  in  which  I  took  an 
almost  equal  interest.  This  was  the  negro-minstrel  show, 
for  that  was  the  heyday  of  negro  minstrels.  They  had 
regular  and  permanent  establishments  in  all  the  large  cities. 
The  one  in  Boston  was  that  of  Morris  Brothers,  Pell  and 
Trowbridge,  and  many  an  hour  have  I  passed  in  their  in- 
tellectual society,  to  the  great  detriment  of  my  limited 
pocket-money.  "Billy"  Morris,  the  "bones"  of  the  com- 
pany, I  think,  was  one  of  the  well-known  figures  of  Boston. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  with  the  largest  black  mustache  I  ever 
saw  on  a  human  being.  He  dressed  in  the  most  resplendent 
manner,  with  a  huge  diamond  cluster  pin  in  his  shirt-front, 
and  I  used  to  stare  at  him,  when  I  passed  him  in  the  street, 
with  no  little  interest  and  admiration.  He  was  most  gor- 
geous and  conspicuous  in  winter.  Sleighing,  when  good,  was 
one  of  the  favorite  winter  amusements  of  Boston,  and  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  racing  on  the  old  Brighton  Road,  where 
some  very  fast  trotting  was  indulged  in.  That  road  on  a 
good  day  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the  town,  and  we  boys  used 
often  to  go  there  either  legally  in  a  family  sleigh  or  on  foot, 
or  quite  illegally  by  "cutting  on  behind"  the  sleighs  of  other 
people.  All  the  sporting  men  and  owners  of  fast  horses 
were  there  to  be  seen,  but  none  was  so  brilliant  as  "Billy" 
Morris  in  black  furs  driving  a  very  fast  horse,  and  with  his 
great  mustache,  which  looked  like  part  of  the  furs,  visible 
from  a  long  distance. 

All  that  I  have  thus  far  written  of  my  early  theatrical 
experiences  relates  to  the  period  preceding  that  supposed 
to  be  covered  by  this  chapter,  and  it  was  also  before  1860 
that  an  event  happened  which  gave  me  the  unusual  oppor- 
tunities of  which  I  spoke  at  the  outset.  The  Boston  Theatre 


96  EARLY  MEMORIES 

was  built  in  1853-54  by  a  company  composed  wholly,  I 
think,  of  gentlemen  who  desired  to  have  a  place  where  operas, 
for  the  performance  of  which  no  suitable  building  then  ex- 
isted, could  be  given.  The  return  to  the  shareholders  on  their 
investment  was  to  be  in  the  form  of  seats,  as  is  the  case  with 
many  opera-houses.  The  subscribers  carried  out  their  proj- 
ect on  the  most  generous  scale  and  built  one  of  the  largest 
theatres  in  the  world.  It  seated  over  three  thousand  peo- 
ple, and  had  a  really  superb  stage,  exceeding  in  width  and 
depth,  I  believe,  any  then  existing.  The  theatre  was  also 
amply  provided  with  lobbies  and  foyers,  and  possessed 
two  large  exits  on  a  level  with  the  street.  The  acoustic 
properties  were  perfect;  Joseph  Jefferson  said,  when  he 
first  tried  it  for  "Rip  Van  Winkle,"  that  he  could  "hear 
his  whisper  creep  round  the  walls."  The  proprietors, 
knowing  that  it  would  have  to  be  both  theatre  and  opera- 
house,  built  it  without  boxes  in  order  to  save  space.  The 
new  theatre  was,  in  fact,  everything  that  it  should  have  been, 
but  it  did  not  succeed.  Boston  could  only  support  grand 
opera  for  a  few  weeks  even  at  the  comparatively  modest 
prices  of  those  days,  and  for  a  stock  company,  which,  after 
the  prevailing  fashion,  was  to  occupy  the  stage  during  the 
rest  of  the  year,  it  was  far  too  large  and  could  not  be  filled  by 
them  sufficiently  to  pay.  At  all  events,  whatever  the  reason, 
the  theatre  fell  into  financial  difficulties.  In  this  state  of 
affairs  my  father  was  chosen  president  of  the  board  of  di- 
rectors, and  although,  like  every  one  else,  he  only  owned  a 
few  shares,  and  although  he  was  already  burdened  with  too 
many  heavy  business  cares,  he  threw  himself  into  the  work 
of  saving  the  theatre  with  his  wonted  zeal  and  energy. 

His  theory  was  that  the  only  way  to  make  the  theatre 
self-sustaining  was  to  let  it  out  to  the  travelling  companies 
for  a  few  weeks  at  a  time,  and  especially  to  those  which  pro- 
duced pantomimes,  melodramas,  or  spectacles  requiring  a 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  97 

large  stage.  In  this  way  he  thought  that  the  theatre  could 
be  maintained  at  the  minimum  of  expense  and  with  an  as- 
surance of  a  constant  variety  which  would  fill  the  house. 
As  with  most  innovations,  there  was  an  anxious  period  at 
the  outset,  but  some  time  before  he  died  the  theatre  was  pay- 
ing, and  the  same  system  pursued  under  subsequent  owner- 
ship has  made  it  very  profitable  down  to  the  present  day. 
My  father's  thus  taking  control  of  the  theatre  not  only 
gave  me  free  entrance  to  all  performances  and  to  the  direct- 
ors' box,  but  enabled  me  to  extend  my  operations  to  every 
part  of  the  theatre.  Together  with  my  friend  Sturgis 
Bigelow,  who  had  tastes  in  this  respect  just  like  my  own,  I 
quickly  established  close  alliances  with  all  the  employees  of 
the  theatre,  and  especially  with  the  keeper  of  the  stage-door 
and  the  property-man,  so  that  we  were  soon  as  familiar 
behind  the  scenes  as  in  front  of  the  curtain.  One  of  the 
companies  most  popular  at  that  period  was  a  hybrid  or- 
ganization which  combined  circus  and  drama — drama  of  a 
large,  scenic,  and  spectacular  kind  in  which  horses  played  a 
conspicuous  part.  The  performance  opened  with  a  regular 
circus,  for  the  stage  was  large  enough  to  accommodate  a 
ring,  and  then  followed  the  play.  The  two  plays  I  remem- 
ber best  were  the  "Cataract  of  the  Ganges"  and  "Tippoo 
Sahib."  The  former  culminated  in  the  heroine's  escape 
from  the  wicked  priests  by  way  of  the  falls,  down  which 
real  water  flowed  and  which  nature  had  arranged  with  low 
steps  so  that  an  educated  horse  could  gallop  up  them. 
"Tippoo  Sahib"  was  a  thrilling  presentation  of  the  crim- 
inal career  of  that  monarch,  including  live  elephants  in  the 
procession,  and  the  final  capture  of  his  stronghold  by  a 
charge  of  cavalry  after  the  manner  of  Lord  Peterborough's 
famous  exploit  in  Spain,  only  more  exact  and  realistic. 
These  dramatic  works  I  witnessed  many  times,  but  the 
occasion  I  remember  best  was  at  a  performance  of  the 


98  EARLY  MEMORIES 

"  Cataract  of  the  Ganges,"  when  Bigelow  and  I  hid  ourselves 
behind  the  canvas  statue  of  some  Indian  god  and  watched 
the  scene  in  the  cave  from  that  point  of  vantage,  peeping 
out  around  the  edges  of  the  flat  and  deceptive  deity  to  look 
at  the  audience. 

We  also  took  advantage  of  our  opportunities  not  only 
by  wandering  about  behind  the  scenes,  examining  the  stage 
machinery  and  learning  to  make  thunder  and  red  fire,  but 
by  seeing  some  excellent  plays  and  much  good  acting. 
There  was  at  that  period  (1861-63)  a  very  strong  company 
organized  by  Henry  Jarrett  and  also  an  independent  com- 
bination formed  by  some  of  the  best  actors  of  the  day  who 
divided  the  profits  among  themselves  and  were  not  engaged 
or  controlled  by  any  manager.  In  these  two  companies 
were  John  Gilbert  and  Mark  Smith,  J.  W.  Wallack  and  E. 
L.  Davenport,  L.  R.  Shewell,  George  Vandenhoff,  W.  R. 
Blake,  Thomas  Placide,  John  E.  Owens,  William  Wheatleigh, 
who  played  the  young  heroes,  Mrs.  Barrow,  Mrs.  Skerritt, 
and  others.  They  were  all  good  actors  and  brought  out 
the  old  comedies  and  some  more  recent  ones  with  an  even- 
ness of  excellence  which  is  very  rare.  I  then  saw  not  only 
the  "School  for  Scandal,"  "The  Rivals,"  and  "She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,"  which  may  still  be  seen  at  intervals  even  now, 
but  many  others  like  "Speed  the  Plough,"  "The  Heir  at 
Law,"  "London  Assurance,"  "Jane  Shore,"  "Money," 
"The  Poor  Gentleman,"  "The  Toodles,"  "The  Serious 
Family,"  "The  Hunchback,"  "The  Road  to  Ruin,"  and 
"Wild  Oats,"  all  of  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  seem  to  have 
disappeared  entirely.  I  also  saw,  but  not  at  that  time, 
"A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  with  Davenport  as  Sir 
Giles  Overreach.  He  played  the  part  better  than  any  one 
except  Booth,  and  quite  as  well,  I  think,  as  Booth.  It  was  a 
good  bit  of  education  to  have  seen  all  these  old  comedies 
well  given  before  their  final  departure  from  the  stage,  for 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  99 

they  possessed,  as  a  rule,  literary  as  well  as  dramatic  merit, 
and  literature  is  more  conspicuous  by  its  absence  than  by 
its  presence  on  the  popular  stage  of  to-day.  There  are,  of 
course,  good  modern  plays,  quite  equal  to  and  often  better 
than  many  of  these  old  comedies,  but  they  do  not  command 
the  popular  stage  to  the  same  degree  as  the  old  comedies 
did  in  my  boyhood.  This  I  think  is  true  in  England  as  well 
as  in  the  United  States,  although  it  must  be  confessed  that 
our  theatres  have  sunk  lower,  certainly  have  declined,  in 
the  character  of  their  performances  more  universally  than 
the  English. 

At  the  same  time  Wheatleigh  brought  out  the  first  part 
of  "  Henry  IV,"  taking  the  part  of  Prince  Hal  himself,  and 
with  Hackett  as  Falstaff — the  best  Falstaff  of  the  day.  I 
remember  few  plays  which  interested  me  more  as  a  boy, 
and  I  wish  it  were  played  oftener.  It  connects  itself  in 
my  mind  also  with  the  excitement  of  the  war-time.  On 
every  bill  and  poster  announcing  the  play  were  printed  the 
King's  words  after  the  fight  at  Shrewsbury: 

"  Rebellion  in  the  land  shall  lose  his  sway, 
Meeting  the  check  of  such  another  day. 
And  since  this  business  so  fair  is  done, 
Let  us  not  leave  till  all  our  own  be  won." 

When  delivered  on  the  stage  these  lines  were  greeted  with 
rounds  of  applause,  and  in  the  same  way  the  audiences 
would  receive  with  cheers  and  shouts  the  King's  fierce  utter- 
ance in  "Richard  III": 

"Cold  friends  to  me! 
What  do  they  in  the  north, 
When  they  should  serve  their  sovereign  in  the  west?" 

Less  thrilling  but  very  amusing  was  John  E.  Owens  as 
"Solon  Shingle/'  an  excellent  bit  of  character  acting. 


100  EARLY  MEMORIES 

It  was  at  about  this  same  time  that  I  saw  Forrest  as 
"Metamora."  He  impressed  me  deeply  in  the  part  of  the 
noble  savage,  and  I  did  not  mind  his  rant  or  his  marked 
mannerisms.  He  was  a  very  striking-looking  man,  large, 
powerful,  with  a  voice  of  great  depth  and  compass.  His 
faults  were  obvious  enough,  in  fact  everything  about  him 
was  obvious,  and  he  was  generally  condemned  by  my  elders, 
to  whose  opinion  I  deferred  and  from  whom  I  concealed 
my  admiration  for  the  chief  of  the  Wampanoags.  But 
when  I  saw  him  in  later  years,  although  he  was  then  an  old 
man,  I  perceived  that  despite  his  ranting  and  his  crudity, 
due  to  lack  of  training,  he  was  a  really  great  actor  of  un- 
usual force  and  power.  Altogether  these  remembrances  of 
the  stage  are  among  the  pleasantest  and  most  vivid  of  my 
boyhood,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  had  such  large  opportunities 
in  that  direction. 

There  was  also  one  incident,  not  theatrical,  connected 
with  the  Boston  Theatre  which  interested  me  greatly  at  the 
time.  It  was  there  that  the  ball  was  given  to  the  Prince  of 
Wales  when  he  came  to  Boston,  and  my  father,  being  presi- 
dent of  the  board  of  directors  and  responsible  for  the  build- 
ing, was,  of  course,  most  anxious  that  all  should  go  well. 
He  went  early  to  see  that  everything  was  right,  and  in  this 
way  I  was  able  to  see  the  theatre  and  all  the  decorations 
before  any  one  arrived.  It  really  looked  very  well,  I  think, 
and  it  certainly  seemed  very  splendid  to  my  inexperienced 
eyes.  The  whole  pit  was  floored  over,  making,  with  the 
stage,  an  immense  ballroom,  and  the  galleries  were  profusely 
decorated  with  flags  and  flowers.  I  was  allowed  to  stay 
and  witness  the  entrance  of  the  royal  party  and  the  opening 
of  the  ball  by  the  prince,  a  fair-haired  boy,  who  seemed  to 
me  altogether  too  simple  in  appearance,  for  I  had  expected 
robes  and  crowns,  the  kings  with  whom  I  was  acquainted 
on  the  stage  and  in  books  usually  appearing  either  with 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:   1860-1867  101 

those  adornments  or  else  in  full  armor.  As  I  remember  no 
more  of  the  festivity,  I  imagine  that  at  this  point  I  was  sent 
home  to  bed. 

In  addition  to  the  drama,  legitimate  and  otherwise,  my 
friends  and  I  were  unfailing  attendants  at  the  performances 
of  all  the  jugglers  and  conjurers  who  came  to  the  city.  I 
remember  particularly  "Professor"  Anderson,  "The  Wizard 
of  the  North,"  who  had  a  vast  amount  of  machinery  and 
paraphernalia  and  very  little  sleight  of  hand,  and  the  elder 
Hermann,  who  was  just  the  reverse.  From  watching  Her- 
mann we  learned,  after  long  practice,  to  throw  or  scale  cards. 
He  was  able  to  throw  a  card  from  the  stage  into  the  top 
gallery  of  the  Boston  Theatre,  a  really  remarkable  feat  of 
strength  and  dexterity.  It  was  at  this  time,  too,  that  Doctor 
Bigelow  took  Sturgis  Bigelow  and  me  to  see  Artemus  Ward 
with  his  panorama,  and  hear  him  lecture.  I  remember 
Artemus  Ward  with  great  vividness;  his  rather  pale  face, 
his  slightly  delicate  look,  the  large  mustache,  the  very 
quiet  manner,  and  the  perfect  solemnity  with  which  he 
said  the  most  amusing  and  most  ridiculous  things.  His 
writings  I  had  read,  laughed  at,  and  admired,  and  his  per- 
sonal appearance  and  manner  enhanced  his  humor  and  puns. 
He  was  a  true  humorist,  and  unlike  most  of  those  who  had 
a  brief  notoriety  and  success  at  the  time  is  still  readable,  for 
there  was  in  some  things  that  he  said  a  touch  of  the  humor 
which  is  eternal  because  it  pertains  to  human  nature  and  is 
not  concerned  merely  with  the  events  of  the  passing  day. 

But  theatres  were  not  my  only  interest  apart  from  sports 
and  outdoor  amusements.  Although  in  common  with  many 
young  gentlemen  of  my  own  age  I  exercised  extraordinary 
diligence  in  getting  through  school  with  as  little  mental  effort 
and  as  large  an  evasion  of  rules  and  discipline  as  possible, 
yet  I  did  not  leave  my  mind  wholly  unemployed.  If  a  good 
fairy  stood  by  my  cradle  she  conferred  upon  me  one  gift 


102  EARLY  MEMORIES 

which  has  been  a  great  possession  to  me  all  my  life  and  which 
grows  even  more  precious  as  age  begins  to  settle  down.  That 
gift  was  a  love  of  books  and  of  reading.  It  is  a  solitary  habit, 
but  it  was  a  very  fixed  one  with  me  and  always  indulged  in 
without  restriction  when  I  was  alone.  I  have  already  spoken 
of  the  delight  I  experienced  in  reading  the  Waverley  Novels 
when  I  was  nine  years  old,  and  from  that  I  proceeded  to 
many  other  works,  great  and  small.  I  read,  of  course,  the 
current  "boys'  books"  by  Mayne  Reid  and  Ballantyne,  by 
Kingston  and  "Oliver  Optic/7  and  others  to  whom  I  am 
indebted  for  many  happy  hours.  "Robinson  Crusoe"  and 
the  "Swiss  Family  Robinson"  I  read  over  and  over  again, 
and  prized  them  both  equally,  I  think,  my  literary  judgment 
being  still  undeveloped.  All  fairy  stories,  from  the  "  Arabian 
Nights"  down,  were  read  many  times,  and  likewise  Haw- 
thorne's "Tanglewood  Tales"  and  "Wonderbook,"  as  well 
as  Bulfinch's  "Age  of  Chivalry"  and  "Age  of  Fable,"  four 
volumes  from  which  I  really  gathered  some  knowledge  of 
Greek  mythology  and  of  the  Arthurian  legend.  Cooper  I 
read  thoroughly,  and  I  did  not  then  find  him  verbose  and 
diffuse.  Leatherstocking  was  of  course  one  of  my  heroes. 
I  read  all  of  Dickens,  and  "David  Copperfield"  was  one  of 
my  favorite  books,  that  is  the  first  part;  the  last  part  rather 
bored  me  except  when  it  came  to  the  death  of  Steerforth, 
the  downfall  of  Uriah,  and  the  triumph  of  Micawber.  All 
of  Marryat's  books  and  Irving's  "Tales  of  the  Alhambra" 
and  the  "Chronicle  of  Wolfert's  Roost"  were  very  dear  to 
me,  but  anything  in  the  form  of  a  story  had  an  irresistible 
attraction.  These  books  which  I  have  mentioned  were  all 
permitted  works,  but  I  also  managed  to  read  surreptitiously 
"Jack  Sheppard,"  by  Ainsworth,  who  is  described  by  the 
worthy  Mr.  Allibone  as  the  "Tyburn  Plutarch,"  and  "Pere- 
grine Pickle,"  old  copies  of  which  I  found  among  some  books 
at  Nahant. 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  103 

There  was  also  another  kind  of  forbidden  fruit  in  the 
literary  orchard  which  I  gathered  freely,  and  pretended 
to  enjoy,  simply,  I  think,  because  it  was  forbidden.  These 
prohibited  works  were  the  dime  novels  published  in  vivid 
orange  colors  by  Mr.  Beadle  and  another  series  known  as 
Novelettes,  large  although  thin  quarto  pamphlets,  dressed 
out  in  vivid  colors  very  arresting  to  the  gaze  of  the  small 
boy.  The  former  dealt  chiefly  with  frontier  life  and  deadly 
combats  with  "redskins";  the  latter  were  a  far-off  echo  of 
the  Valois  novels  of  Dumas,  and  were  peopled  with  gentle- 
men in  the  costume  attributed  to  Charles  II,  and  by  ladies 
dressed  in  the  Victorian  fashion,  like  the  characters  in  "  La 
Traviata"  as  presented  in  those  days.  Both  series  were 
quite  harmless;  they  could  not  have  brought  a  blush  to  any 
cheek,  least  of  all  to  that  of  a  boy;  and  the  objection  to 
them  on  the  part  of  parents  and  guardians  was  merely  be- 
cause they  had  never  read  them.  As  a  rule  they  were  sen- 
sational and  extravagant,  and  being  destitute  of  art  or 
imagination  were  really  dull.  Secretly  I  thought  so  at  the 
time,  and  much  preferred  the  permitted  stories  of  Scott 
and  Cooper,  Defoe,  Marryat,  Dickens,  and  Poe.  But  I 
would  not  have  confessed  my  real  opinion  for  worlds,  because 
it  was  felt  to  be  fine  and  manly  and  a  little  wicked  to  read, 
with  dark  precautions,  these  quite  uninteresting  but  en- 
ticingly forbidden  books. 

Stories  and  fiction  were  not,  however,  all  my  reading, 
although  they  formed  the  staple  of  it.  My  grandfather  had 
a  strong  taste  for  travels  and  voyages,  and  among  his  books 
I  read  Mungo  Park  and  Captain  Reilly's  narrative.  He 
also  bought  all  the  new  books  of  travel  and  exploration. 
Kane's  expedition  to  the  North  Pole  had  excited  great  in- 
terest, and  I  well  remember  the  talk  about  it  and  about  the 
book  which  followed.  Livingstone's  first  volume  also  ap- 
peared about  that  time,  as  well  as  Gerard's  "Lion  Hunter" 


104  EARLY  MEMORIES 

and  Earth's  "Travels  in  Africa."  The  last  is  a  formidable 
work — I  still  have  it — but  I  read  a  good  deal  of  it  and  much 
enjoyed  the  pictures,  as  I  did  still  more  those  in  Perry's 
"Expedition  to  Japan/'  which  I  looked  over  again  and  again. 
These  early  studies  in  the  literature  of  African  discovery 
caused  me  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  Du  Chaillu's  gorillas 
when  his  collection  was  exhibited  in  Boston  not  long  after- 
wards. There  was  at  that  time  much  doubt  felt  as  to  the 
veracity  of  his  narrative  and  the  genuineness  of  his  collec- 
tion, but  the  explorations  of  later  years  have  fully  confirmed 
and  justified  all  that  he  wrote,  and  show  that  the  doubts 
expressed  were  as  unjust  as  they  were  ill  founded. 

I  loved  ballads  and  Homeric  poetry  of  any  and  every 
kind.  I  cannot  say  how  many  times  I  read  Scott's  poems, 
especially  "Marmion"  and  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake."  I 
also  read  "Richard  III"  and  parts  of  the  other  plays,  as  well 
as  "Don  Quixote,"  because  I  saw  my  father  reading  them 
so  often;  but  "Richard"  and  "Don  Quixote"  I  really  liked 
and  they  took  a  strong  hold  on  my  imagination.  My  father 
and  grandfather  had  a  fairly  large  library,  and  I  wandered 
about  in  it  on  rainy  days  looking  into  books,  examining  pic- 
tures when  there  were  any,  and  reading  wherever  a  passage 
caught  my  vagrant  attention.  I  have  always  been  grateful 
to  Doctor  Johnson  for  his  defence  of  "desultory  reading/' 
and  I  think  that  most  of  the  education  which  I  picked  up  in 
those  days  was  obtained  from  my  own  unaided  efforts  in  that 
direction.  One  piece  of  really  important  reading  I  also 
accomplished  at  that  time,  and  accomplished  thoroughly, 
owing  to  an  accident.  To  mitigate  the  rigors  of  com- 
pulsory attendance  at  church  I  made  a  treaty  with  my 
mother  that  if  I  sat  quiet  I  might  read  the  Bible  instead 
of  listening  to  the  sermon.  The  treaty  thus  ratified  was 
easily  executed,  for  the  high-backed  pews  of  the  old  Brat- 
tle Street  Church  were  well  adapted  both  to  concealment 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  105 

and  to  study.  It  was  a  fine  old  eighteenth-century  church 
with  a  square  tower;  in  which  was  imbedded  a  cannon-ball 
said  to  have  been  fired  and  lodged  there  by  the  American 
batteries  at  the  siege  of  Boston.  The  interior  was  in  the 
classical  style  of  Wren,  much  in  vogue  in  the  province  in 
the  days  of  Anne  and  the  first  Georges.  A  huge  mahogany 
pulpit,  the  gift  of  John  Hancock,  towered  up  darkly  in  the 
centre  of  what  would  have  been  called  the  chancel  in  any 
other  than  a  Puritan  church.  I  remember  well  the  occasion 
when  the  Reverend  Cyrus  Bartol,  very  small  and  thin,  with 
a  shrill  voice,  popped  up  one  Sunday  from  the  depths  of  the 
great  pulpit,  and  with  hardly  more  than  his  head  showing 
over  the  edge  piped  out  his  text:  "Lo,  it  is  I!  Be  not 
afraid."  Very  few  preachers,  however,  gave  rise  to  such 
pleasant  incidents,  and  most  of  the  sermons  (the  church 
was  then  Unitarian)  were  long  and  serious,  and  although  no 
doubt  often  able,  were  rather  beyond  the  capacity  and  atten- 
tion of  a  boy.  In  this  way,  however,  my  biblical  studies 
began,  for  I  regret  to  say  that,  speaking  frankly,  the  Bible 
was  not  a  form  of  reading  which  I  should  have  voluntarily 
selected  if  it  had  not  been  so  much  better  than  sitting  silent 
in  uncomfortable  restlessness  while  some  one  preached. 
Thus  it  came  to  pass,  at  all  events,  that  I  read  the  Bible 
thoroughly  from  beginning  to  end,  "bating  the  Apocrypha," 
as  a  countryman  said  in  some  now  forgotten  story  of  my 
youth,  which  Apocrypha,  lacking  unfortunately  in  my  edi- 
tion, was,  if  I  had  only  known  it,  the  repository  of  some  of 
the  best  and  most  charming  of  the  biblical  stories.  I  have 
never  quite  understood  why  the  books  of  the  Apocrypha 
were  not  intrinsically  as  much  entitled  to  a  place  among 
the  canonical  books  as  many  now  found  there.  Much  of 
the  Bible  naturally  I  did  not  then  understand,  much  I 
found  wearisome;  but  the  historical  books,  full  of  fighting 
and  of  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death,  all  the  beautiful 


106  EARLY  MEMORIES 

stories  and  the  Four  Gospels,  the  most  beautiful  of  all, 
became  to  me  a  great  delight.  I  do  not  know  that  my 
morals  or  my  religious  views  were  improved;  as  they  no 
doubt  should  have  been,  by  this  course  of  reading,  but  I 
am  certain  that  I  became  familiar  with  persons  and  stories 
which  are  part  of  the  life  and  thought  of  our  race,  and  that 
reading  over  and  over  again  all  that  splendid  English  could 
not  but  have  had  some  unconscious  effect  even  upon  a  boy 
and  may  have  bred  in  him  a  respect  for  the  noble  language 
which  was  perhaps  his  best  inheritance. 

Such  in  outline,  traced  not  for  criticism  or  analysis,  but 
merely  as  a  picture  of  life  at  the  time,  were  the  occupations 
and  amusements  which  made  up  existence  for  me  in  those 
days.  But  my  first  years  at  Mr.  DixwelPs  school  were 
darkened  by  two  sorrows  which  fell  upon  my  family  and 
brought  sharply  home  to  me  the  serious  nature  of  life.  In 
September,  1862,  my  father,  worn  out  and  broken  down 
nervously  by  too  much  work,  too  many  cares,  and  too  many 
responsibilities,  died  suddenly.  The  blow  fell  like  a  bolt  of 
lightning.  He  joked  with  me  as  I  ate  my  supper,  and  then 
went  up  to  his  room,  not  feeling  very  well,  and  dropped 
dead.  I  can  hear  the  murmur  of  the  frightened  servants, 
"Poor  child!"  as  I  made  my  way  up-stairs.  I  can  see  him 
in  his  coffin;  I  can  recall  my  being  sent  to  Mrs.  Guild's 
house  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  all  the  dark  necessities  of  such 
a  time.  I  can  see  the  crowded  church  at  his  funeral  and  all 
the  poor  people  whom  he  had  helped  standing  in  the  aisles. 
I  was  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  did  not  comprehend  what 
had  happened.  Not  until  long  afterwards  did  I  know  what 
a  loss  it  had  been  to  me  at  twelve  years  of  age.  Then  I 
recovered  with  the  elasticity  of  childhood,  although  I  re- 
mained deeply  conscious  of  a  great  blank  in  my  life. 

I  will  venture  to  give  here  two  letters  in  regard  to  my 
father  from  men  who  knew  him  intimately,  and  which  may 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867          107 

serve  to  show  what  was  thought  of  him  by  others  who  were 
not  bound  to  him  by  the  close  ties  of  family  affection  as  I 
was. 

BOSTON,  14th  Sept.,  '62. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.   LODGE — 

You  cannot  doubt  how  sincerely  I  have  grieved  with  you  and 
your  family.  I  have  lost  a  friend,  true  and  firm.  There  are  few 
losses  greater. 

I  am  so  glad  that  I  saw  him  on  Wednesday  last  and  had  such 
a  pleasant  conversation  with  him,  so  gentle,  kind  and  hospitable, 
which  I  can  never  forget. 

I  shall  go  to  the  Church  tomorrow,  and  wish  that  I  could  do 
anything  to  testify  my  sympathy  with  you  and  my  respect  for 
his  memory. 

May  God  bless  you  and  comfort  you  in  this  great  affliction 
and  keep  fresh  the  recollection  of  those  manly  virtues  and  affec- 
tions for  which  he  was  remarkable. 

Believe  me 

dear  Mrs.  Lodge 
Ever  sincerely  yours 

CHARLES  SUMNER. 

VIENNA 
Oct  28  1862 

MY  DEAR  ANNA, 

Mary  wrote  to  you  by  the  first  post  that  left  this  place  for 
America  after  we  had  received  the  sad  news  which  has  plunged 
your  household  in  affliction.  You  can  well  believe  that  she  most 
deeply  regrets  her  inability  to  be  with  you  in  this  trying  hour,  as 
it  seems  to  her  almost  unnatural  that  she  should  be  away  from  you 
and  from  your  father  in  a  time  of  distress. 

I  think  you  will  not  object  to  a  few  words  of  sincere  and  heart- 
felt sympathy  from  me,  although  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  all 
words  are  idle,  and  there  is  no  consoler  but  Time  for  such  a  grief 
as  yours.  I  claim  however,  a  portion  of  your  sorrow,  for  never 
since  I  had  first  the  pleasure  of  making  your  husband's  acquaint- 
ance, has  there  been  anything  but  kindness  between  us,  and,  I 
trust,  mutual  regard  and  esteem. 

I  can  at  least  answer  for  myself  that  I  always  entertained  the 


108  EARLY  MEMORIES 

most  sincere  respect  for  his  many  admirable  qualities,  that  I 
ever  valued  his  friendship,  and  that  it  gives  me  now  a  true  consola- 
tion for  his  loss  to  reflect  that  never  from  first  to  last,  have  I  had 
a  moment's  misunderstanding  with  him  or  a  word  of  unkindness, 
and  that  I  and  mine  have  treasured  in  our  memories  a  long  list 
of  deeds  of  disinterested  and  most  active  friendship  toward  us. 

I  claim  to  have  had  as  true  an  appreciation  of  him  as  any  one 
out  of  the  immediate  circle  of  his  nearest  relatives.  I  never  saw 
more  self  devotion,  more  inexhaustible  friendship  than  that  of 
which  he  was  capable — as  I  am  sure  your  father  and  your  dear 
mother  always  so  thoroughly  believed. 

I  can  hardly  now  accept  the  fact  that  all  that  zeal,  energy 
and  intelligent  activity  has  been  so  suddenly  suspended,  nor  do  I 
comprehend  how  you,  or  your  children  or  your  father  can  exist 
without  that  constant  and  untiring  care  with  which  he  seemed  to 
envelop  you  all. 

Others  can  do  better  justice  to  his  honour,  intelligence  and  his 
fortunate  intrepidity  in  the  commercial  pursuits  to  which  he  de- 
voted his  outside  life,  but  I  for  one  can  bear  witness  to  his  virtues 
in  the  interior  life,  which  is  so  much  more  important  to  our  hap- 
piness. I  feel  that  I  too  have  lost  a  friend,  and  a  most  valued  one, 
in  this  calamity  which  has  stricken  you  and  most  deeply  do  I 
regret  that  I  cannot  be  at  home  at  this  moment,  to  do  my  best  to 
comfort  your  father,  who  has  always  been  as  kind  as  a  father  to 
me,  and  whom  I  honestly  love  like  a  son. 

I  think  it  would  be  a  relief  to  him  to  talk  with  one,  who  so 
sincerely  appreciated  your  departed  husband,  over  his  many 
manly  virtues — and  I  am  sure  that  if  Mary  could  be  with  you  all, 
you  would  find  a  sympathy  which  could  never  fail  you.  I  will 
say  no  more,  perhaps  it  had  been  as  well  if  I  had  said  nothing, 
for  what  are  words,  especially  written  ones  to  alleviate  sorrow.  I 
don't  dare  to  think  of  Lillie's  grief,  any  more  than  of  her  mother's 
or  grandfather's.  Poor  child,  I  am  aware  that  she  idolized  her 
father — and  for  the  best  of  reasons. 

Good  bye  and  God  bless  you.  I  trust  that  God  will  enable  you 
to  bear  the  blow  with  fortitude  and  that  Time  will  mitigate  your 
grief.  Give  my  best  love  and  sincerest  sympathy  to  your  father. 
Mary  and  Lily  join  me  in  words  of  affection  to  all  and  I  remain 
ever  most  sincerely  your  friend 

J.  L.  MOTLEY 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867          109 

Two  years  later,  in  1864,  my  grandfather  died.  He  was 
nearly  eighty-two,  and  his  last  years  were  years  of  suffering. 
His  mind  remained  perfectly  clear;  he  was  as  kind  and 
gentle  as  ever,  he  never  complained,  but  he  grew  more 
silent  and  the  end  came  peacefully.  He  was  too  old  to 
have  been  as  near  to  me  as  my  father  was,  but  I  missed  him 
greatly,  and  although  I  could  not  then  put  the  thought  into 
words,  I  knew  that  a  very  noble  and  gracious  presence  had 
gone  from  my  little  world. 

The  year  after  my  father's  death  was  made  memorable 
to  me  by  my  first  journey.  In  1863  we  went  to  New  York,  a 
great  event  to  me,  and  stayed  there  some  time.  We  went  to 
a  hotel,  now  vanished,  the  Saint  Nicholas.  Far  down- town 
it  would  seem  now,  but  then,  although  fashion  was  already 
pushing  up  beyond  Madison  Square,  it  was  not  yet  wholly 
in  the  business  quarter,  as  the  block  which  it  largely  occupied 
is  to-day.  Sturgis  Bigelow  happened  to  be  there  at  the 
same  time,  and  the  two  idle  schoolboys  together  enjoyed 
themselves  very  well  after  their  own  fashion.  We  took  full 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  for  varied  eating  offered  by  a 
hotel  on  the  "American  plan,"  then  nearly  universal,  and 
gorged  ourselves  on  every  possible  occasion  like  young  boa- 
constrictors.  We  passed  our  days  chiefly  in  wandering  up 
and  down  Broadway,  looking  into  the  shops  and  also  into 
a  disgusting  exhibition  called  "Kahn's  Medical  Museum/' 
which  I  wonder  should  have  been  permitted  to  open  its  doors 
for  the  delectation  of  boys.  We  also  went  much  to  a  more 
innocent  place,  Barnum's  Museum,  then  situated  where  the 
Herald  Building  afterwards  stood,  on  the  corner  of  Broad- 
way facing  north  toward  the  City  Hall  Park.  We  found  our 
way  to  the  Battery,  at  one  end  of  the  city,  and  to  Central 
Park,  then  quite  new,  at  the  other.  But  our  chief  pleasure 
was  the  theatre,  to  which  we  were  allowed  to  go  in  the  eve- 
ning, as  there  was  no  school  necessitating  early  rising. 


110  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Almost  opposite  our  hotel  was  "Bryant's  Minstrels," 
brilliant  at  night  with  the  name  in  colored  lights  made  by  a 
series  of  small  cups  filled,  I  think,  with  oil.  Some  of  these 
were  always  being  blown  out,  but  the  general  effect  was 
very  satisfying  to  our  simple  tastes,  and  we  frequented  the 
performances  to  which  we  were  so  radiantly  invited.  Just 
above  our  hotel,  on  the  other  side  of  Broadway,  was  Niblo's 
Garden,  a  famous  theatre  in  those  days,  and  very  far  up- 
town as  it  then  seemed  was  "  Wallack's,"  where  was  gathered 
the  best  stock  company  in  the  country,  headed  by  Lester 
Wallack  himself,  an  admirable  actor,  and  where  we  saw 
some  really  good  plays. 

The  following  summer  we  took  another  journey,  which 
seemed  to  me  a  very  extensive  one  indeed.  We  went  to 
Trenton  Falls,  now  ruined  by  conversion  into  power,  and 
thence  to  Niagara.  At  Trenton  I  had  an  adventure  which 
nearly  terminated  my  promising  career.  In  company  with 
a  Mr.  Rand  I  walked  far  up  the  river  gorge  above  the  prin- 
cipal falls.  It  was  a  beautiful  walk  by  the  side  of  the  dark- 
brown,  swift-rushing  stream,  but  very  hard  going  over  the 
rocks,  and  we  decided  to  climb  up  the  steep  cliffs  which 
formed  the  side  of  the  ravine,  where  we  then  were,  and  re- 
turn to  the  hotel  by  the  road  above.  Each  of  us  started  at 
a  different  point  and  proceeded  to  scramble  up.  I  got 
nearly  to  the  top  very  successfully  when  the  little  ledge  of 
rock  or  earth  upon  which  I  had  put  my  foot  suddenly  gave 
way.  It  was  a  bad  quarter  of  a  minute,  because  below  me 
was  a  sheer  drop  of  considerable  height  down  to  the  rocks  of 
the  river.  Luckily  for  me  a  small  tree  grew  outward  from 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  just  above  me.  I  grasped  it  desperately 
with  a  sickening  doubt  as  to  whether  it  would  give  way. 
Fortunately  it  held  as  I  hung  to  it  with  both  hands,  swing- 
ing over  space,  and  then  it  was  easy  to  draw  my  light 
weight  up,  get  astride  of  it,  and  scramble  in  to  the  top  of 


BOYHOOD— MY  LAST  SCHOOL:  1860-1867  111 

the  cliff.  I  was  a  badly  frightened  boy  when  I  rolled  over 
on  the  grass  and  looked  down  into  the  ravine  below.  My 
companion  had  had  no  difficulty.  Boylike,  I  had  selected 
the  shortest,  most  perpendicular,  and  most  dangerous  route 
with  a  cheerful  confidence  in  my  powers  of  climbing  any- 
thing and  with  no  knowledge  of  the  importance  of  footholds 
on  the  face  of  cliffs  where  rock  gradually  merges  in  earth. 

From  Trenton  we  went  to  Niagara,  which  I  explored 
thoroughly  and  enjoyed  immensely,  but  I  have  read  too 
many  "first  impressions"  of  the  great  falls  to  attempt  to 
add  my  own. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  WAR:  1860-1865 

I  COULD  not  in  the  last  chapter  say  anything  of  the  ter- 
rible ordeal  through  which  the  country  was  passing  during 
my  first  four  years  at  Mr.  Dixwell's  school.  It  was  too  great 
and  too  solemn  to  be  mixed  up  with  random  memories  of 
boyish  sports  and  school  experiences.  It  was  overshadowing 
then,  even  to  a  boy.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  people  did 
not  go  about  their  business  and  that  boys  did  not  learn 
their  lessons  and  play  their  games  through  all  those  weary 
years  just  as  the  people  of  Paris  went  about  their  own  little 
round  of  labor  and  filled  the  theatres  nightly  during  the 
Reign  of  Terror.  The  daily  life  of  men,  the  common  cares 
and  toils  of  existence,  are  the  hardest  things  in  the  world  to 
stop.  Nothing  less  than  absolute  destruction  by  nature  or  by 
man  can  arrest  them  for  more  than  a  few  hours.  But  while 
the  Civil  War  was  raging  it  was  certain  that  no  one  forgot 
it  and  that  its  shadow  hung  dark  over  the  land.  I  was  only 
ten  years  old  when  the  war  began,  only  fourteen  when  it 
ended,  and  yet  in  the  history  of  that  great  period  of  conflict, 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  impressions  of  a  boy,  living 
safe-sheltered  in  a  city  and  a  State  where  no  enemy  ever 
set  his  foot,  are  not  without  importance,  because  everything 
which  may  serve  to  explain  or  characterize  or  illustrate  a 
struggle  so  momentous  ought  to  have  some  value  to  those 
of  the  future  who  would  seek  the  truth  about  the  past. 

My  people  had  been  from  the  foundation  of  the  govern- 

112 


THE  WAR:   1860-1865  113 

ment  Federalists  and  Whigs.  My  grandfather,  Mr.  Cabot, 
and  my  father  Were  both  Whigs,  but  had  left  their  party 
after  Mr.  Webster's  7th  of  March  speech,  although  in  my 
grandfather's  case  it  was,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  rupture 
of  a  lifelong  friendship.  They  became  "Free-Soilers,"  for 
they  were  both  strongly  opposed  to  slavery,  my  father  ex- 
tremely so  because  he  had  lived  many  years  in  New  Orleans, 
engaged  in  business  there,  and  had  imbibed,  from  close 
observation,  an  intense  hatred  of  the  system.  The  old 
negro  servant  whom  he  had  bought  and  set  free  was  a 
living  witness  to  this  experience  in  his  life  and  was  also 
one  of  the  cheerful  recollections  of  my  childhood.  When 
the  Republican  party  was  formed  my  grandfather  and 
father  both  joined  it  and  supported  Fremont  and  Dayton 
in  1856.  My  father  had  never  taken  part  in  politics,  but 
he  was  so  profoundly  stirred  by  the  slavery  question  that 
he  went  down  to  the  wharves  where  his  ships  were  lying 
and  made  a  speech  to  the  sailors,  longshoremen,  and  steve- 
dores in  behalf  of  Fremont.  My  first  political  recollection 
is  that  I  "hollered  for  Fr&nont,"  which  is  all  I  now  remem- 
ber of  that  campaign.  Four  years  later,  in  1860, 1  remember 
a  great  deal  more.  I  had  heard  Mr.  Sumner  talk  much  at 
our  dinner-table;  I  had  been  with  my  father  to  see  him  at 
his  house  in  Hancock  Street,  I  think  soon  after  the  John 
Brown  raid,  about  which  I  had  been  told  a  great  deal  and 
which  excited  my  imagination;  and  I  knew  well  how  deeply 
my  father  was  interested  in  the  success  of  Lincoln.  So  I 
wore  a  Lincoln  badge  and  was  told  by  some  of  my  play- 
fellows, in  accents  of  deep  scorn,  that  my  father  was  a 
"black  Republican"  and  a  friend  of  Charles  Sumner,  and 
I  suppose  that  I  retorted  in  kind. 

The  struggle  in  Massachusetts,  so  far  as  I  knew  of  it, 
was  between  Lincoln  and  Hamlin,  on  the  one  side,  and  Bell 
and  Everett,  who  were  the  candidates  of  what  remained  of 


114  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  Whig  party,1  once  all-powerful  in  the  State,  on  the  other. 
There  were  also  Douglas  Democrats  and  pro-slavery  Demo- 
crats, but  of  these  I  knew  nothing  beyond  believing  that  all 
pro-slavery  Democrats  were  criminals  of  the  darkest  dye. 
The  fact  is  that  the  Democrats,  never  very  strong  in  our 
State,  were  divided,  and  although  the  Douglas  Democrats 
polled  more  votes  than  the  conservative  Whigs,  who  hated 
the  slavery  agitation,  the  latter  were  still  strong  with  peo- 
ple of  property  and  the  business  interests.  Mr.  Everett,  a 
great  orator  and  one  of  the  most  distinguished  and  respected 
of  our  public  men,  also  brought  local  support  to  the  ticket 
which  bore  his  name.  I  think  a  majority  of  the  boys  whom 
I  knew  were  for  Bell  and  Everett,  but  Lincoln  carried  the 
State  overwhelmingly.  Respectable  Boston,  for  the  most 
part,  was  out  of  step  at  the  moment  of  the  crisis  and  before 
the  final  division  was  declared,  but  Massachusetts,  as  usual, 
was  right  at  the  crucial  moment. 

The  event  which  I  remember  most  vividly  in  that  cam- 
paign was  the  great  Republican  torchlight  procession  of 
the  "Wide-awake  Clubs"  just  before  the  election.  The 
Common,  where  they  assembled,  was  a  sea  of  tossing  lights, 
very  striking  to  look  upon,  and  made  an  even  sharper  mark 
in  my  memory  than  the  long  march  past  with  the  banners 
and  transparencies,  the  fireworks  and  the  cheers,  all  of  which 
I  thoroughly  enjoyed  and  from  which  I  sagely  concluded 
that  we  should  win,  because  we  had  a  longer  procession  and 
made  more  noise  than  the  Whigs.  I  have  since  come  very 
clearly  to  the  conclusion  that  no  more  idiotic  way  of  carry- 
ing on  a  political  campaign  was  ever  devised  than  that  of 
torchlight  processions,  marching  clubs,  red  fire,  and  rockets, 
with  all  their  noise  and  waste  of  money.  I  am  happy  to 
say  that  this  silly  habit  is  apparently  disappearing,  and  will, 

1  It  was  called  the  "Constitutional  Union  Party,"  but  it  was  chiefly  com- 
posed of  former  Whigs, 


THE  WAR:  1860-1865  115 

I  trust,  soon  be  entirely  extinct.  But  in  1860  the  idea  was 
comparatively  new,  and  the  whole  thing  was  done  with 
real  enthusiasm  and  gave  a  vent  for  the  excitement  of  the 
time  which  was  anything  but  perfunctory.  The  torches  of 
the  "Wide-awakes"  flashed  against  a  darkened  sky,  their 
cheers  rang  out  across  a  troubled  air.  Men  knew  that  the 
country  was  driving  forth  upon  a  stormy  sea,  and  the  wisest 
could  not  shape  the  course  or  guess  the  future.  Every  one 
felt  the  pressure  of  coming  events,  and  most  of  those  who 
carried  torches  soon  exchanged  them  for  muskets  and  rifles, 
which  proved  more  illuminating  in  certain  dark  places  of 
the  earth  than  the  torches  they  replaced. 

I  do  not  intend  to  trace  the  history  of  the  war  as  I  know 
that  history  now.  I  shall  merely  try  to  tell  what  I  remem- 
ber, and  my  recollections  are  of  scattered  events  with  long 
blanks  between.  My  object  is  not  to  give  my  history  of 
the  Civil  War  and  my  views  upon  it,  but  simply,  so  far  as 
I  can,  to  show  how  it  struck  a  contemporary  of  ten  to  four- 
teen years  of  age. 

Of  the  terrible  winter  which  followed  the  "Wide-awake" 
procession,  when  the  country  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  wrecked  through  the  treason  and  weakness  of  Bu- 
chanan and  his  cabinet  before  Lincoln  could  even  have  a 
chance  to  save  it,  I  recall  nothing  except  my  father's  anxiety 
and  the  fact  that  political  talk  was  going  on  constantly 
about  me.  The  first  actual  event  which  I  really  remember 
in  1861  was  the  firing  upon  Fort  Sumter.  I  had  heard  of 
Major  Anderson  and  had  begun  to  look  upon  him  as  the 
hero  of  the  time,  so  that  the  news  that  the  fort  had  been 
fired  upon  and  had  surrendered  filled  me  with  sorrow  and 
anger.  That  it  was  capable  of  affecting  so  strongly  a  boy 
not  yet  eleven  years  old  shows,  I  think,  how  deeply  that 
attack,  by  which  the  South  deliberately  plunged  the  coun- 
try into  war,  went  home  to  the  North.  My  simple  hope 


116  EARLY  MEMORIES 

and  my  one  desire  was  that  we  should  now  go  on  fighting 
until  we  got  that  fort  back,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was 
exactly  what  we  did. 

Then  came  the  departure  of  the  first  troops  from  Boston, 
and  I  think  that  I  heard  Governor  Andrew  address  them, 
but  of  this  I  am  not  sure,  for  I  heard  him  speak  to  other 
regiments,  and  one  memory  is  blurred  by  another.  Gov- 
ernor Andrew  I  remember  well  at  that  time,  although  I 
cannot  recall  a  word  which  I  heard  him  utter.  But  the 
short,  strong,  sturdy  figure  with  the  square,  massive  head 
covered  with  tight  curling  light  hair  is  very  plain  to  me,  as 
well  as  the  feeling  of  awe  and  solemnity  which  came  over 
me  when  I  saw  him  speaking  to  the  soldiers.  All  that  he 
strove  for  and  suffered  and  did,  I  know  now,  and  now,  too, 
I  can  understand  the  force  and  nobility  of  the  man,  but  then 
it  was  only  a  deep  impression  of  a  leader,  of  a  great  and 
important  person,  which  touched  my  young  imagination. 
He  had  a  powerful  and  emotional  temperament,  and  as  he 
was  moved  himself  so  he  moved  others,  even  a  boy,  without 
the  boy's  knowing  why.  Years  afterwards  Mr.  Justice  Gray 
told  me  a  story  of  Andrew  which  always  seemed  to  me  to 
define  what  manner  of  man  he  was  better  than  anything 
else  I  ever  heard.  It  was  just  after  the  war  and  Andrew 
was  about  to  leave  the  governorship.  He  had  lost  his  once 
large  practice  at  the  bar  and  had  no  resources,  owing  to  his 
having  sacrificed  everything  to  his  public  service.  This  fact 
was  generally  known,  and  there  had  been  some  talk  of  giving 
him  the  collectorship  of  the  port  of  Boston,  which  was  a 
lucrative  office.  In  summer,  when  the  town  was  deserted, 
Governor  Andrew  was  in  the  habit  of  lunching  with  Judge 
Gray,  who  lived  near  the  State  House,  and  there  he  came 
one  day  as  usual.  No  one  else  was  present.  When  they 
were  seated  at  the  table  Judge  Gray  referred  to  the  current 
rumor  about  the  collectorship.  Without  a  word  of  warning 


THE  WAR:   1860-1865  117 

(I  use  Judge  Gray's  own  expression)  Andrew  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  looked  at  his  host  earnestly,  and  said:  "I 
have  stood  as  high-priest  between  the  horns  of  the  altar. 
I  have  poured  out  upon  it  the  best  blood  of  Massachusetts. 
I  cannot  take  money  for  that."  They  were  entirely  alone, 
there  was  no  audience,  it  was  simply  the  expression  of  the 
man's  nature  in  words  and  imagery  at  once  instinctive  and 
natural.  Judge  Gray  added  that  no  eloquence  he  had  ever 
heard  had  moved  him  so  much.  Andrew  indeed  was  one 
of  the  conspicuous  figures  of  the  war  time,  one  of  the  great 
war  governors  who,  like  Morton  in  Indiana,  did  so  much  to 
sustain  Lincoln  and  save  the  Union.  I  am  glad  to  have 
seen  him  and  to  realize  that  he  impressed  me  deeply,  heed- 
less boy  as  I  was. 

I  knew  nothing  as  to  the  first  regiments  when  I  saw  them 
go  from  Boston.  But  there  was  one  with  which  I  soon  be- 
came familiar,  the  famous  Sixth  Regiment,  which  was 
mobbed  in  Baltimore.  The  first  blood  shed  in  battle  in  the 
American  Revolution  was  that  of  Massachusetts  men  at 
Lexington  and  Concord.  It  was  the  fortune  of  the  State  to 
shed  the  first  blood  in  the  Civil  War,  and  on  the  same  day 
of  the  month,  the  19th  of  April.  When  the  regiment  reached 
Baltimore  it  was  obliged  to  march  through  the  city  in  order 
to  take  the  Washington  train  on  the  other  side.  On  the 
way  they  were  hooted  and  pelted,  and  when  they  reached 
the  lower  quarters  of  the  city,  which  were  intensely  and 
bitterly  Democratic,  as  well  as  secessionist,  they  were  sav- 
agely assailed  by  a  mob  of  roughs  commonly  known  as  the 
"  Baltimore  Plug  Uglies,"  who  used  paving-stones  and  pistols. 
Four  of  the  soldiers  were  killed  and  thirty-six  wounded. 
The  troops  finally  opened  fire  on  the  mob  and  forced  their 
way  through  to  the  station  with  their  bayonets,  leaving 
their  dead  and  the  seriously  wounded  behind  them.  All 
this  I  remember,  for  I  eagerly  read  the  accounts  and  studied 
the  wholly  imaginary  pictures  of  the  fight  in  the  street  as 


118  EARLY  MEMORIES 

portrayed  in  the  rough  wood-cuts  of  the  illustrated  papers. 
Most  clearly  of  all  do  I  recollect  seeing  photographs — very 
poor  things  in  those  days — of  two  of  the  soldiers  killed  by  the 
mob.  The  photographs  were  of  the  small  size  common  at 
that  time  and  had  been  taken  probably  for  some  mother  or 
sister  or  sweetheart  before  the  poor  fellows  started  out  to 
save  Washington.  They  came  from  Lowell,  as  I  remember, 
and  were  young  fellows,  one  only  eighteen,  but  to  the  eyes 
of  ten  years  old  they  looked  like  mature  men,  and  I  was  not 
then  aware  that  wars  were  usually  fought  by  what  I  should 
now  call  boys.  The  pathos  and  tragedy  of  it  all  passed  by 
me,  but  wrath  did  not.  There  had  been  real  fighting,  some 
Massachusetts  men  had  been  killed  by  a  mob  of  pro-slavery 
Democrats,  and  rage  filled  my  heart.  I  at  once  determined 
that  I  would  enlist  as  a  drummer,  for  I  had  gathered  from 
my  reading  that  such  was  the  proper  and  conventional 
thing  for  a  boy  to  do,  and  I  pictured  to  myself  the  feats  of 
gallantry  I  would  perform  as  we  made  a  victorious  charge, 
for  all  the  charges  which  I  intended  making  with  my  regi- 
ment were  to  be  victorious.  I  suppose  nearly  all  boys  of 
my  age  were  filled  with  the  same  ambition  at  that  time,  for 
the  war  fever  was  burning  fiercely  and  reached  even  the 
youngest.  My  plans  for  a  military  life,  however,  were  not 
taken  in  either  a  favorable  or  even  a  serious  spirit  by  my 
family,  and  I  had  to  content  myself  with  imagining  desperate 
assaults  and  gallant  exploits,  from  which  I  always  escaped 
alive  and  glorious,  a  soothing  exercise  in  which  I  frequently 
indulged,  generally  just  before  I  dropped  to  sleep  for  the 
night.  None  the  less,  I  am  glad  that  I  had  those  emotions 
and  was  moved  and  stirred  by  the  pictures  of  the  lads  who 
fell  at  Baltimore.  It  is  not  much,  but  it  is  something  to 
have  had  that  feeling  at  a  time  when  dangers  thickened 
about  the  country  and  there  was  a  great  and  noble  passion 
moving  among  the  people. 

Thirty-seven  years  later,  in  the  spring,  too,  for  the  war 


THE  WAR:  1860-1865  119 

with  Spain  was  virtually  declared  by  the  resolution  which 
passed  Congress  early  on  the  morning  of  the  fateful  19th  of 
April,  I  went  with  my  friend  Mr.  Justice  Moody,  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  then  a  member  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives, to  Baltimore  in  order  to  meet  the  Sixth  Massachusetts 
Regiment  and  see  them  pass  through  the  city.  Under  the 
present  arrangements  they  might  have  gone  on  without 
leaving  the  cars,  but  they  abandoned  the  train  outside  the 
city  and  then  marched  to  the  southern  station,  taking  the 
exact  line  which  their  predecessors  had  taken  in  1861.  We 
followed  them  along  the  whole  route.  They  were  cheered 
from  beginning  to  end,  in  the  poorer  quarters  as  in  the  best, 
and  flowers  were  thrown  to  them  as  they  passed.  It  was 
"roses,  roses  all  the  way,"  and  the  scene  was  one  I  shall 
never  forget.  We  managed  to  reach  the  station  ahead  of 
the  troops,  and  saw  them  come  in,  cheered  to  the  last,  and 
just  at  the  very  spot  where  their  predecessors  had  fought 
their  way  to  safety  with  a  fierce  and  baffled  mob  raging  at 
their  heels.  It  was  a  sight  worth  seeing,  very  moving,  very 
impressive,  but  it  seemed  to  me  to  show  that  the  poor  boys 
whose  pictures  I  had  gazed  upon  so  many  years  before  had 
not  died  in  vain,  and  that  the  war  with  Spain,  if  it  did  nothing 
else,  demonstrated  once  for  all  this  great  fact,  and  was  in  its 
turn  not  without  value  and  meaning  to  the  American  people. 
The  next  event  of  1861  which  stands  out  sharply  in  my 
memory  was  the  shooting  of  Colonel  Ellsworth  at  Alex- 
andria. He  had  entered  a  hotel  to  pull  down  a  rebel  flag, 
and  the  tavern-keeper,  a  man  named  Jackson,  as  I  remem- 
ber, shot  Kim  without  warning.  It  was  murder,  not  war, 
and  I  recollect  well  the  profound  impression  which  was 
produced  by  this  incident.  Ellsworth  was  colonel  of  the 
New  York  Zouaves,  a  crack  regiment;  he  was  young,  pop- 
ular, handsome.  I  remember  his  picture  perfectly.  Unim- 
portant as  one  death  was  in  the  great  war  then  break- 


120  EARLY  MEMORIES 

ing  upon  us,  that  particular  murder  and  the  manner  of 
it,  coming  as  it  did  at  the  very  start,  roused  bitter  feelings 
and  stimulated  greatly  the  fighting  spirit  of  the  North.  I 
wished  then  that  I  had  been  there  to  take  immediate  and 
bloody  revenge  upon  the  innkeeper,  who  was  shot  down  by 
one  of  the  Zouaves,  and  who  is  so  wholly  obscure  now  that 
I  cannot  even  be  sure  of  his  name,  which  then  went  far  and 
wide  throughout  the  country. 

I  think  this  vividness  of  the  first  incidents  of  the  war, 
and  the  blanks  and  the  confusion  which  I  find  in  my  recol- 
lections of  the  following  years,  are  owing  simply  to  the  fact 
that  they  were  the  first.  The  killing  of  two  or  three  men 
in  Baltimore  in  1861  shook  the  country.  Three  or  four 
years  later  engagements  in  which  two  or  three  hundred 
men  were  killed  and  wounded  on  each  side  were  dismissed 
in  a  paragraph  and  described  as  skirmishes,  as  indeed  they 
seemed  to  a  people  who  had  beheld  the  awful  losses  at 
Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville,  at  Shiloh,  Fredericksburg, 
or  Cold  Harbor. 

The  first  Bull  Run  I  well  remember,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  intense  surprise  and  the  real  misery  which  it 
brought  to  me,  but  my  only  desire  was  to  fight  on  and  wipe 
out  the  disgrace.  My  boyish  heart  hardened  under  that 
blow,  and,  as  I  now  see,  the  heart  of  the  country  hardened 
too,  and  men  set  themselves  in  dead  earnest  to  carry  on  the 
grim  work.  After  this  the  memories  begin  to  blur  and  run 
together.  I  recall  Island  Number  10  and  Donelson  and 
Port  Royal,  victories  which  cheered  the  entire  North.  I 
remember  the  dreadful  Sunday  when  the  news  came  of 
some  great  defeat,  and  the  way  the  churches  were  kept  open 
and  people  assembled  in  them  to  collect  and  prepare  lint 
and  bandages  and  supplies  to  be  sent  at  once  to  the  army. 
Antietam  I  well  recall,  for  many  Massachusetts  regiments 
suffered  there  severely,  but  I  did  not  realize  until  I  went 


THE  WAR:   1860-1865  121 

over  the  battle-field  years  afterwards  in  company  with  Pres- 
ident McKinley  what  a  bad  position  Lee  had  deliberately 
walked  into  and  how  completely  McClellan  had  thrown  away 
his  opportunity. 

Of  the  Western  battles  I  remember  less,  but  I  rejoiced 
in  following  the  fighting  which  cleared  the  great  rivers,  and 
the  names  of  Farragut  and  Porter,  of  Foote  and  Davis>  and 
of  their  river  victories  were  all  familiar  to  me.  Even  more 
familiar  and  exciting  was  the  fight  between  the  Monitor 
and  the  Merrimac.  The  victory  of  the  Monitor,  for  such  it 
was  in  effect,  was  not  only  momentous,  but,  owing  to  the 
comparative  size  of  the  two  vessels,  had  the  attraction 
which  dwells  in  the  stories  of  the  boys  who  fare  forth  into 
the  world  in  search  of  adventure  and  slay  huge  giants  and 
monstrous  dragons.  The  performance  of  the  Merrimac 
had  most  properly  frightened  the  country  thoroughly,  and 
her  repulse  by  the  Monitor  brought  a  corresponding  sense 
of  joy  and  relief.  Some  time  afterwards,  in  connection  with 
one  of  the  fairs  for  the  benefit  of  the  Sanitary  Commission, 
an  arrangement  was  made  for  a  presentation  of  the  fight 
by  miniature  vessels.  A  portion  of  the  Frog  Pond  was  shut 
in  and  covered  by  a  tent  with  a  platform  running  round  it 
for  the  spectators.  Upon  the  sheet  of  water  thus  enclosed 
there  came  out  a  little  Merrimac,  propelled  by  steam,  which, 
as  I  remember,  rammed  and  sank  two  representatives  of 
the  Cumberland  and  the  Congress.  Then  out  darted  the 
Monitor,  and  there  was  much  firing  of  little  guns  until  the 
Merrimac  was  withdrawn,  sinking  and  crippled.  I  went  to 
the  first  performance,  and  in  addition  to  the  sham  fight, 
which  I  keenly  enjoyed,  the  evening  is  memorable  to  me 
because  it  was  the  only  occasion  upon  which  I  ever  heard 
Edward  Everett  speak.  He  was  then  an  old  man,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  his  death,  but  he  made  a  little  address 
explaining  what  we  were  about  to  see,  and  of  course  spoke 


122  EARLY  MEMORIES 

of  the  war  and  the  country.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man  with 
white  hair,  extremely  dignified,  yet  entirely  simple  in  his 
manner,  and  his  account  that  evening  of  the  famous  fight 
made  it  all  very  clear  and  very  exciting  to  at  least  one  of 
his  listeners.  What  I  remember  most  clearly  about  him, 
however,  was  his  beautiful  voice  and  that,  although  he  did 
not  seem  strong  and  spoke  low  and  gently,  every  word  fell 
distinctly  upon  our  ears.  The  tent  was  rather  dimly  lighted, 
the  water  looked  very  black  and  cold,  and  the  whole  scene, 
with  Mr.  Everett  standing  bareheaded  by  the  rail,  comes 
back  to  me  now  with  a  certain  dramatic  intensity  born  of 
the  time,  which  brought  emotions  possible  only  in  days  like 
those. 

I  remember  well  the  terrible  news  of  Fredericksburg 
and  the  rejoicings  over  Vicksburg  and  Gettysburg.  The 
draft  riots  in  Boston  seemed  to  bring  the  war  very  near 
home,  and  I  felt  great  pride  in  the  fact  that  the  officer  at 
the  Cooper  Street  Armory  who  fired  the  "whiff  of  grape 
shot"  just  at  the  right  moment  and  blew  the  Boston  riot 
out  of  existence  was  a  kinsman  of  mine,  Stephen  Cabot. 
The  naval  battles  at  Mobile  and  New  Orleans  appealed 
strongly  to  a  boy  brought  up  among  ships,  as  did  "  Sheri- 
dan's ride"  to  a  lover  of  horses,  but  the  movement  which  I 
followed  most  closely  and  with  the  deepest  interest  was  Sher- 
man's march  to  the  sea.  Still  keen  is  the  remembrance  of 
the  blind  rage  with  which  I  assailed  our  Democratic  Irish 
groom,  otherwise  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  when  he  told 
me  that  Sherman  would  never  get  through.  Then  came  the 
fall  of  Richmond,  news  announced  by  Mr.  Dixwell  when 
school  was  dismissed.  The  boys  raced  out  up  Boylston 
Street  and  on  to  the  Common  shouting  at  the  top  of  their 
lungs,  and  found  themselves  quite  in  harmony  with  the  rest 
of  the  population,  which  was  by  no  means  always  the  case. 

I  have  merely  enumerated  the  great  events  as  they  stand 


THE  WAR  :  1860-1865 


123 


recorded  in  my  memory,  with  wide  gaps  between  them, 
with  no  connection,  and  even  in  uncertain  order.  Were  I 
to  attempt  to  arrange  them  or  describe  them  I  should  at 
once  begin  to  mingle  knowledge  with  remembrance,  for  my 
actual  recollection  of  those  days,  although  vivid,  is  neither 
well  defined  nor  coherent.  But  such  events  as  I  have  briefly 
catalogued  sank  deep  into  the  mind  even  of  a  boy.  To  have 
been  alive  and  in  a  sense  a  witness  to  such  a  mighty  conflict 
as  our  Civil  War  left  an  ineffaceable  impression,  none  the 
less  lasting  because  it  was  unconscious. 

Yet  the  effect  of  the  war  on  my  mind  and  its  influence 
upon  me  as  a  great  educational  force  were  not,  I  think, 
chiefly  due  to  the  accounts  I  read  and  the  pictures  I  pored 
over  of  distant  battles  by  sea  and  land.  That  which  had 
most  effect,  as  it  seems  to  me  now,  was  the  atmosphere  in 
which  I  lived.  The  war  pervaded  everything.  You  saw 
it  in  the  streets,  in  the  disappearance  of  silver  and  gold, 
in  the  early  makeshifts  for  money,  in  the  paper  currency, 
in  the  passing  soldiers,  in  the  neighboring  camps.  You 
heard  it  in  Andrew's  voice  addressing  the  regiments  as  they 
started  for  the  South.  No  boy  could  forget  Robert  Shaw 
going  out  at  the  head  of  his  black  troops  or  General  Bartlett 
riding  by  on  his  way  to  the  front,  one  leg  gone,  and  strapped 
to  his  saddle.  Military  companies  were  organized  in  all 
the  schools  and  every  boy  was  compelled  to  drill.  Ours 
was  the  first,  and  we  were  organized  and  thoroughly  drilled, 
as  if  it  had  now  become  a  part  of  every  American's  regular 
education,  so  that  when  the  time  came  he  might  be  able 
to  do  his  duty  in  a  perpetual  war.  The  war  appeared  in 
the  theatres,  where  every  sentence  which  could  be  twisted 
into  a  patriotic  allusion  was  loudly  cheered.  The  fairs  to 
raise  money  for  the  Sanitary  Commission  became  an  insti- 
tution, and  even  the  caps  we  wore  were  those  made  fashion- 
able by  the  Emperor  of  the  French  and  used  by  our  own 


124  EARLY  MEMORIES 

officers  until  superseded  by  the  much  more  sensible  and 
practical  Kossuth  hats.  But  that  which  pressed  most 
hardly  was  the  anxiety  for  the  living  and  the  grief  for  those 
dead  in  battle.  My  father,  as  I  have  said  in  an  earlier 
chapter,  was  eager  to  go  to  the  war,  and  thought  that  he 
could  serve  efficiently  in  a  cavalry  regiment  which  he  wished 
to  raise  himself.  He  was  not  only  well  past  the  military 
age,  but,  as  I  have  already  said,  a  big  thoroughbred  mare 
had  recently  fallen  with  him  and  injured  his  knee  so  that 
he  could  not  be  long  in  the  saddle  or  walk  much  without 
great  pain.  The  doctors  pronounced  his  scheme  to  be 
utterly  impossible,  and  he  gave  it  up.  After  his  death,  in 
1862,  there  remained  in  the  family  only  my  grandfather, 
my  mother,  my  sister,  and  myself,  so  that  no  one  was  able 
to  go  to  the  war  from  my  own  household,  but  every  regi- 
ment took  with  it  cousins,  kinsmen,  friends,  young  men, 
many  of  whom  I  had  seen  at  my  sister's  parties.  After 
every  battle  I  used  to  hear  in  mournful  tones:  "So  and  So 
is  killed'7  or  "So  and  So  is  wounded."  This  reading  the 
death-roll  and  scanning  bulletins  to  see  how  many  men 
whom  you  have  known  and  cared  for,  whose  people  are 
your  people  and  whose  fate  is  dear  to  you,  have  been 
killed  is  not  an  experience  that  one  ever  forgets.  At  last 
it  came  very  near  to  me,  very  near  indeed  by  age  and  asso- 
ciation and  habit  of  life.  One  of  the  older  boys  at  our  school 
was  Huntington  Wolcott,  elder  brother  of  Roger  Wolcott, 
a  lifelong  friend  of  mine  and  later  a  distinguished  governor 
of  Massachusetts.  In  the  last  year  of  the  war  Huntington 
Wolcott  could  no  longer  be  restrained;  he  was  only  seven- 
teen, but  he  secured  a  commission,  went  to  the  front,  con- 
tracted a  deadly  camp-fever,  was  brought  home,  and  died. 
The  school  went  to  the  funeral  and  I  saw  him  in  his  coffin, 
worn,  haggard,  aged,  and  yet  still  a  boy,  dressed  in  the 
uniform  of  the  United  States.  This  brought  the  war  home 


THE  WAR  :   1860-1865  125 

to  me  as  never  before.  I  remember  thinking  as  I  went 
down  the  steps  of  the  house  that  if  the  war  lasted  that  was 
what  would  happen  to  me,  a  prospect  which  did  not  cheer 
me,  for  it  never  occurred  to  my  mind — and  I  think  I  was 
like  all  other  boys  in  this  respect — that  I  should  do  any- 
thing but  join  the  army  as  soon  as  I  was  old  enough,  be- 
cause four  years  is  a  long  time  at  that  age,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  country  had  always  been  and  always  would  be  at 
war. 

It  was  said  in  those  days,  and  said  truly,  that  boys  fresh 
from  college  went  into  the  army  and  came  out  grave  and 
serious  men.  The  mere  passage  of  time  was  nothing. 
They  had  lived  more  and  longer  in  those  four  years  than 
most  men  in  a  whole  lifetime.  In  a  lesser  degree  much 
younger  boys,  more  or  less  unconsciously  no  doubt,  received 
an  impression  from  those  years  of  civil  war  and  were  then 
subjected  to  influences  from  which  they  never  recovered 
and  which  affected  unalterably  their  feeling  about  their 
country.  I  am  sure  that  the  men  born  since  the  Civil  War 
are  just  as  patriotic,  just  as  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves 
for  their  country,  as  those  born  before  it.  I  should  despair 
of  the  future  if  I  did  not  think  so.  But  the  feeling  about 
the  country  of  those  to  whom  the  Civil  War  is  not  mere 
history,  but  a  living  memory,  is,  I  am  certain,  a  little  differ- 
ent from  that  of  any  others.  They  actually  saw  the  coun- 
try, however  dimly,  at  death  grips  with  a  destroying  antag- 
onist, reeling  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss.  They  knew  that  the 
country's  life  was  at  stake  and  they  saw  it  emerge  victorious. 
The  sacrifice  of  life  and  treasure  by  which  the  victory  was 
won  was  all  about  them  and  the  news  of  battle  was  always 
ringing  in  their  ears.  In  after-years  they  might  forget 
much,  but  these  things  they  could  not  forget,  for  a  man 
fortunately  does  not  often  see  his  country's  very  existence 
at  stake  in  war.  And  so,  never  forgetting  the  past,  those 


126  EARLY  MEMORIES 

who  lived  through  the  war  times  have  a  more  tender  senti- 
ment about  their  country,  they  are  more  easily  moved  by 
all  that  appeals  to  their  sense  of  patriotism,  and  they  are 
less  dispassionate  no  doubt  in  judging  America  and  the 
American  people  than  others,  just  as  they  are  more  intolerant 
of  those  Americans  who  live  abroad,  ape  foreign  ways,  and 
sneer  at  their  own  land  and  its  people,  for  they  know,  they 
who  remember,  what  it  all  cost  and  what  a  price  the  people 
once  paid  to  save  the  country  from  those  who  sought  to 
tear  it  asunder. 

The  war  left  me,  as  I  think  it  left  those  of  my  time  gen- 
erally, with  certain  profound  convictions  which  nothing  can 
ever  shake.  It  made  me  an  optimist  so  far  as  the  United 
States  is  concerned.  I  am  well  aware  how  much  condi- 
tions have  changed  since  1861 ;  the  vast  increase  of  wealth, 
the  problems  raised  by  the  modern  economic  developments, 
the  alteration  in  the  character  of  the  population  owing  to 
the  flood  of  immigration,  all  these  things  are  present  to  my 
mind,  and  I  do  not  underestimate  their  gravity  or  the  sin- 
ister possibilities  which  they  suggest.  Nor  am  I  oblivious 
of  the  darkest  sign  of  all,  the  way  in  which  money  and  the 
acquisition  of  money  by  taking  it  from  some  one  else  through 
the  process  of  law  seems  in  the  last  analysis  rampant  in 
nearly  every  portion  of  the  community,  and  at  the  bottom 
if  not  at  the  top  of  almost  every  proposed  reform,  every 
political  issue,  and  every  personal  ambition.  But  none  the 
less,  and  realizing  all  the  grim  suggestions  of  the  present  day, 
I  have  seen,  without  fully  comprehending,  I  admit,  but  still 
I  have  seen,  the  nation  come  through  the  most  terrible 
ordeal  which  any  nation  can  undergo.  I  know  what  sac- 
rifices were  then  made  in  obedience  to  a  great  sentiment, 
and  I  have  faith  that  the  people  who  were  capable  of  the 
Civil  War  will  be  able  to  meet  any  problems  the  future  may 
have  in  store  whenever  they  realize  that  the  life  of  the 


THE  WAR:  1860-1865  127 

nation  and  every  tradition,  every  belief  which  has  made  it 
what  it  is,  are  at  stake. 

Then,  too,  there  were  certain  beliefs  which  were  im- 
planted in  me  by  the  war,  by  what  I  saw  and  heard  and  by 
what  I  vaguely,  but  none  the  less  deeply,  felt,  and  these  be- 
liefs I  have  never  been  able  to  change.  The  bitter  hostility 
to  the  South  and  to  Southerners  which  the  mass  of  the  North- 
ern people  felt  during  the  war,  and  which  was  as  violent  as  it 
was  crude  in  the  breast  of  the  average  boy,  has,  of  course, 
long  since  passed  away.  I  am  not  only  as  eager  for  the 
welfare  and  prosperity  of  the  South  as  I  am  for  that  of  my 
own  New  England,  but  I  have  no  word  of  reproach  to  utter; 
I  have  nothing  but  the  most  affectionate  feeling  toward 
them,  as  toward  all  my  fellow-Americans.  I  recognize  and 
admire  the  great  military  talents  which  they  displayed, 
and  the  bravery  and  tenacity  which  they  showed  through 
four  long  years  of  desperate  fighting.  I  feel  as  Mr.  Charles 
Francis  Adams  felt  when  he  replied  to  the  Englishman  who 
was  thoughtfully  pointing  out  to  him  just  after  a  Union 
defeat  how  well  the  Southerners  fought:  "Yes,  they  too 
are  Americans."  The  war  was  waged  to  make  the  country 
one,  and  it  has  always  been  my  dearest  wish  to  see  it  united 
in  fact  as  well  as  in  name,  just  as  it  has  come  to  pass  in  my 
lifetime. 

I  also  quite  understand  the  feeling  of  the  Southerners 
in  regard  to  the  Civil  War,  and  their  desire  to  glorify  all 
they  did  and  to  exalt  their  own  heroes.  It  would  be  un- 
natural as  well  as  disloyal  to  their  past  if  they  did  not  do 
those  very  things.  But  when  we  turn  from  the  present  to 
the  past  and  from  the  South  to  the  North  the  case  is  differ- 
ent. There  has  been  in  many  quarters  of  late  years  in  the 
North  a  great  deal  of  sentiment  in  regard  to  the  war  and  the 
South,  much  of  which  is  generous  and  right,  and  some  of 
which  is  maudlin  and  also  most  unjust  to  the  Northern  side. 


128  EARLY  MEMORIES 

It  is  well  for  victors  to  be  magnanimous,  and  much  easier 
than  for  the  vanquished;  but  it  is  somewhat  worse  than 
silly,  in  the  search  for  magnanimity,  to  abandon  your  own 
cause,  which  you  believe  was  righteous,  and  practically 
admit  that  you  ought  to  seek  forgiveness  for  winning. 

There  is  not  a  man  in  the  South  to-day  who  would  dis- 
solve the  Union  or  establish  slavery  if  he  could,  but  neverthe- 
less every  man  there  glorifies  continually  the  men  who  tried, 
at  an  appalling  expense  of  life  and  treasure,  to  effect  both 
these  results  and  who  failed  in  their  attempt.  This  con- 
tradiction is  complete  but  wholly  natural,  and  we  should 
think  ill  of  the  Southern  people  if  they  did  not  behave 
in  exactly  that  way.  Yet  that  which  is  most  praiseworthy 
in  Southerners  is  discreditable  in  a  Northerner,  and  in  the 
war  time  was  defined  by  a  harsher  and  more  truthful 
epithet.  I  make  every  allowance  for  the  fear  of  not  appear- 
ing magnanimous  and  for  the  cheap  temptation  of  being 
considered  an  independent  and  original  thinker  which  ta- 
king the  side  of  one's  opponents  at  a  safe  distance  in  history 
always  holds  out  to  certain  minds  hungry  for  notice.  I 
know  that  "lost  causes"  invariably  gather  about  them 
romance  and  sentiment  as  the  years  go  by  simply  because 
they  were  lost,  and  therefore  no  one  has  had  the  chance  of 
bringing  them  to  the  hard  test  of  experience,  as  is  the  fate 
of  the  cause  which  succeeds.  From  the  time  of  Mary 
Stuart  until  the  "45"  the  Stuart  family  were  an  unmiti- 
gated curse  to  England  and  Scotland,  and  if  either  in  power 
or  in  exile  they  did  anything  which  was  of  any  value  to  the 
people  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  history  does  not  dis- 
close it.  They  were  picturesque,  sometimes  tragic,  occa- 
sionally gallant  figures,  but  at  the  same  time  as  worthless 
a  race  as  the  ill  fortune  of  a  nation  ever  put  upon  a  throne. 
None  the  less,  all  the  romance  and  glamour,  all  the  sympathy 
and  sentiment  of  posterity,  are  lavished  upon  them,  while 


THE  WAR:   1860-1865  129 

the  great  Puritans  who  saved  England  from  despotism  and 
the  great  Whigs  who  brought  in  the  house  of  Hanover  and 
rescued  England  a  second  time  find  justice  only  at  the  hands 
of  serious  historians,  who  not  only  tell  the  truth,  but  who 
think  straight. 

The  "lost  cause"  of  the  South  will  probably  never 
gather  such  a  mass  of  sentiment  about  it  as  that  of  the 
Jacobites,  because  it  was  infinitely  more  respectable  as  well 
as  more  honorable,  and  was  defended  with  a  force,  intelli- 
gence, and  courage  which  justly  obtained  the  admiration  of 
the  world.  But  it  will  still  have  the  advantage  in  sympathy 
and  sentiment  which  inheres  in  all  lost  causes,  simply,  as  I 
have  said,  because  they  have  been  "lost."  With  that  sen- 
timent in  the  South  it  would  be  worse  than  churlish  to 
quarrel.  One  can  only  sympathize  with  and  respect  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  much  can  be  forgiven  to  the  desire  of  the 
victor  to  be  generous,  but  when  the  men  of  the  North  begin 
to  argue  in  behalf  of  the  Southern  cause  in  serious  fashion 
our  sense  of  justice  revolts. 

One  of  the  events  of  my  early  life  which  I  best  remem- 
ber was  when  I  was  roused  very  early  on  an  April  morning 
and  was  told  that  Lincoln  had  been  assassinated.  The 
horror,  the  dazed  surprise,  the  shock  of  the  announcement, 
I  shall  never  forget.  During  the  four  years  just  passed 
Lincoln  had  become  heroic  to  my  young  imagination,  loom- 
ing up  as  a  dim  and  distant  figure  which  seemed  to  me  to 
personify  the  country.  The  crime  which  ended  his  life 
raised  him  in  my  eyes  to  the  proportions  of  a  demigod. 
More  than  forty  years  have  gone  by  since  then,  and  I  think 
that  I  have  become  familiar  both  with  the  man  and  with 
the  times  in  which  he  lived.  The  mythical  figure  of  boy- 
hood has  given  place  to  that  of  the  statesman  and  the  chief 
of  history.  With  some  habit  of  weighing  and  judging  men 
historically,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Lincoln  was 


130  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  greatest  man  of  his  time,  and  the  opinion  expressed  by 
Sir  Spencer  Walpole  in  his  " History  of  Twenty-five  Years" 
assures  me  that  this  is  not  merely  the  unmeasured  feeling 
of  patriotism.  No  one  in  the  North  certainly  would  think 
to-day  of  belittling  Lincoln.  All  confess  that  greatness 
which  has  grown  steadily  since  his  death.  Yet  there  are 
writers  who  go  so  far  as  to  put  inferior  men  in  contrast  and 
comparison  with  him  as  if  they  stood  on  the  same  level. 
In  that  time  of  stress,  in  that  great  ordeal  of  the  Civil  War, 
no  one  stands  on  the  same  plane  with  Lincoln  No  one  else 
moves  in  his  orbit.  He  stands  out  a  lonely  figure  on  the 
heights  to  which  only  the  very  few  and  the  very  greatest 
in  human  history  ever  attain. 

I  never  remember  hearing,  as  a  boy,  bitter  words  about 
the  soldiers  of  the  Confederacy  except  when  some  of  them 
were  guilty  of  barbarities,  like  Forrest  or  the  keepers  of 
the  Southern  prisons,  but  I  well  recall  the  extreme  bitter- 
ness which  was  expressed  in  regard  to  Northern  men  with 
Southern  sympathies.  The  bitterness  here,  as  elsewhere,  has 
long  since  gone,  but  I  see  no  reason  to  change  the  opinion 
upon  which  it  was  founded.  This  is  an  old-fashioned  view, 
no  doubt,  but  I  believe  it  to  be  eminently  sound.  I  can 
understand  the  man  who  during  the  Civil  War  was  loyal 
both  to  his  State  and  to  the  nation.  I  can  understand  and 
I  profoundly  admire  the  man  who  was  loyal  to  the  nation 
against  his  State.  I  can  understand  the  man  who  was 
loyal  to  his  State  against  the  nation.  But  I  cannot  under- 
stand the  men  who  were  loyal  neither  to  their  State  nor  to 
their  nation.  Such  men  in  the  loyal  but  divided  border 
States  who  joined  the  Confederate  army  were  overcome  by 
the  influence  of  neighborhood,  and  at  least  command  the  re- 
spect which  must  always  be  given  to  a  man  who  risks  his  life 
for  his  belief,  no  matter  how  erroneous  that  belief  may  be. 
But  those  men  who  did  not  leave  their  own  loyal  States  to 


THE  WAR:  1860-1865  131 

enter  the  Southern  army,  those  men  who  stayed  at  home, 
sheltered  and  protected  by  the  arms  and  the  laws  of  their 
State  and  their  nation  alike,  and  who  yet  were  Secessionists 
and  Southern  sympathizers,  were  loyal  to  nothing  and  risked 
nothing.  Whether  they  darkly  conspired,  as  in  Indiana,  or 
fostered  riots,  as  in  New  York,  or  contented  themselves,  as 
was  most  common,  with  assailing  the  government,  seeking 
to  cripple  it  and  proclaiming  their  sympathy  with  its  en- 
emies, they  were  utterly  disloyal,  and  deserve  to  be  spoken 
of  in  history  in  proper  terms  as  among  the  worst  foes  of  the 
country.  When  the  history  of  the  time  is  written  by  men 
who  not  only  seek  the  truth,  but  have  not  the  fear  of  being 
thought  ungenerous  or  a  dread  of  criticism  in  certain  nar- 
row circles  before  their  eyes,  they  will  get  their  deserts. 

Another  of  the  intense  feelings  of  the  war  time  was  the 
hostility  which  I  imbibed  against  England.  I  can  recall 
well  the  impotent  rage  I  used  to  feel  when  I  read  sentences 
from  English  newspapers  or  magazines  like  Blackwood's.  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  details  then.  I  know  them  all  now, 
and  my  anger  has  long  since  been  swallowed  up  in  sheer 
marvel  at  the  stupidity  of  the  English  Government  and  of 
the  English  governing  classes,  as  well  as  at  the  utter  lack  of 
ability  and  capacity  displayed  by  so  many  of  those  leaders 
whom  the  English  always  talk  and  write  about  as  if  they 
were  very  great  men.  That  England's  treatment  of  the 
United  States  was  inexcusable  and  that  she  was  forced  to 
make  an  apology  for  her  conduct  is  the  least  part  of  it.  It 
is  the  exquisite  stupidity  of  it  all  which  is  so  amazing.  And 
in  proportion  as  I  felt  a  boyish  wrath  against  England,  so 
was  I  grateful  to  the  workmen  of  Lancashire,  to  Bright  and 
Cobden,  and  to  the  few  who  stood  by  us,  and,  when  I  knew 
more,  to  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert,  for  their  attitude, 
which  helped  us  so  much  at  a  very  dark  hour.  As  a  public 
man  I  have  been  called  upon  to  deal  much  with  our  foreign 


132  EARLY  MEMORIES 

relations,  and  I  know  not  only  that  a  war  between  this 
country  and  Great  Britain  would  be  a  crime  against  civili- 
zation and  something  not  to  be  thought  of,  but  I  also  know 
that  the  closest  and  most  friendly  relations  between  the 
two  powers  are  for  the  interest  of  peace  and  freedom,  as 
well  as  of  both  countries  and  of  the  world.  I  have  done 
what  little  I  could  to  promote  such  relations,  and  to  carry 
out  this  policy  honestly  and  thoroughly,  but  I  have  never 
thought  it  necessary  to  make  needless  concessions  in  order 
to  obtain  this  result,  or  to  show  any  more  courtesy  to  them 
than  they  have  been  ready  to  extend  to  us.  Still  less 'have 
I  ever  felt  the  slightest  deference  to  English  opinion  except 
for  that  of  certain  people,  few  in  number,  as  in  the  war 
time,  who  are  genuine  friends  to  the  United  States.  I  lived 
through  that  war  time,  and  I  have  never  suffered  the  feel- 
ings then  engendered  to  affect  my  action  toward  England  or 
Englishmen  in  the  slightest  degree.  I  have  always  striven 
to  treat  both  on  their  existing  merits.  Still,  I  cannot  and 
do  not  forget,  for  I  was  taught  a  lesson  in  those  early  days 
by  the  attitude  of  England,  and  also  by  that  of  France, 
laboring  then  under  the  burden  of  the  empire,  which  I 
could  not  unlearn  if  I  would. 

Mr.  Herbert  Paul  says  in  one  of  his  essays  that  the  two 
greatest  economic  and  political  events  of  the  nineteenth 
century  were  the  consolidation  of  the  United  States  and 
the  unification  of  Germany.  I  entirely  agree  with  him.  I 
think  also  that  the  dissolution  of  the  American  Union  and 
the  rise  of  two  or  more  warring,  military  republics  on  this 
continent  would  have  been  a  hideous  misfortune  to  the 
American  people  and,  in  a  measure,  to  mankind.  The  South 
was  behind  the  North  in  economic  strength,  in  learning,  and 
in  capacity  for  development,  all  owing  to  the  curse  of  slavery, 
and  the  victory  of  the  South  would  have  been  a  blow  to 
civilization  and  progress.  I  say  this,  recognizing  to  the  full 


THE  WAR:  1860-1865  133 

the  high  courage,  great  ability,  and  unselfish  devotion  of 
the  Southern  people.  But  they  were  trying  to  turn  back 
the  hands  of  the  clock,  to  establish  an  anachronism,  to  re- 
tard human  progress,  and  it  would  have  been  an  awful  mis- 
fortune if  they  had  succeeded.  The  war  was  fought  to 
save  the  Union,  but  it  was  slavery  which  had  put  the  Union 
in  peril.  Slavery  was  a  crime  against  humanity,  and  it  was 
also  a  huge  economic  blunder  and  a  social  curse.  It  is  well 
that  it  was  abolished  by  the  hand  of  war. 

These  are  the  faiths  of  my  boyhood  born  in  the  war 
time.  I  could  only  feel  them  then;  I  can  express  them  now. 
They  were  truisms  then.  They  seem  to  be  pushed  aside  by 
some  people  now  as  if  they  were  something  to  be  ashamed  of, 
as  if  they  might  be  true  but  were  certainly 'disagreeable  and 
might  possibly  hurt  somebody's  feelings.  I  have  wearied  of 
the  tone,  so  familiar  of  late,  that  now,  fifty  years  after  it  all, 
everybody  was  right  and  nobody  wrong,  that  there  was  no 
right  and  no  wrong  about  it,  and  that  the  thing  to  do  is  to 
pass  it  over  gently  and  politely  with  abundant  sentiment 
and  meaningless  praise  for  everybody.  No  good  is  ever 
done  by  falsifying  the  past.  There  was  a  right  and  a  wrong 
in  the  Civil  War.  I  would  not  revive  a  single  bitter  memory, 
I  would  not  do  otherwise  than  acknowledge  all  the  great 
qualities  shown  by  the  South,  I  would  not  attack  them  for 
what  they  then  did.  But  it  is  a  deep  injury  to  shirk  the 
truth  or  try  to  hide  it  by  silence  or  seek  to  blot  it  out.  The 
propositions  I  have  stated  about  the  Union  and  slavery  are 
admitted  openly  or  secretly  by  all  men.  If  they  are  true 
then  the  North  was  right  and  the  right  won.  If  we  start 
with  that  no  more  need  be  said,  but  I  do  not  want  this 
great  truth  of  history  to  be  lost  in  a  sentimental  mist  or  con- 
fused by  a  false  belief  that  if  we  daub  the  truth  with  rhetoric 
so  that  it  can  no  longer  be  recognized  we  shall  in  that  way 
promote  good  feeling.  The  union  of  the  States  and  good 


134  EARLY  MEMORIES 

feeling  as  well  can  rest  securely  and  permanently  on  truth 
alone.  They  will  never  prosper  on  debilitating  falsehoods. 
Let  the  central  truth  stand  confessed  and  admitted,  and  then 
let  all  the  rest  be  buried  in  silence.  As  Lincoln  said;  accord- 
ing to  tradition:  "I  can  conceive  that  both  sides  may  be 
wrong.  I  can  conceive  that  one  side  should  be  right  and 
the  other  wrong.  But  it  is  impossible  that  both  sides 
should  be  right." l  The  tendency  in  the  North  just  now  in 
certain  quarters  is  to  try  to  pretend  that  both  sides  were 
right.  That  is  not  only  impossible  but  false.  Events  have 
shown  inexorably  that  it  was  the  right  which  triumphed  at 
Appomattox.  Forgiveness  is  admirable  and  cannot  be  too 
complete,  but  in  the  affairs  and  the  history  of  nations  it  is 
not  wise  wholly  to  forget.  It  is  still  more  unwise,  it  is  worse 
than  unwise,  to  seek  to  obscure  the  truth. 

'  'Tis  man's  perdition  to  be  safe 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die." 

xln  a  meditation  written  in  a  dark  hour — September,  1862 — and  never 
published  until  long  after  his  death,  Lincoln  said: 

"In  great  contests  each  party  claims  to  act  in  accordance  with  the  will  of 
God.  Both  may  be  and  one  must  be  wrong."  "Life  of  Lincoln,"  Hay  and 
Nicolay,  vol.  VI,  p.  342. 

This  is  the  same  thought  as  that  expressed  in  the  words  quoted  in  the  text. 


CHAPTER  VII 
EUROPE:  1866-1867 

AFTER  I  had  been  five  years  at  Mr.  DixwelPs  school  it 
was  decided  by  the  family  authorities  that  we  should  all 
go  to  Europe,  all  including  my  mother,  my  sister  and  her 
husband,  Mr.  George  Abbot  James,  to  whom  she  had  been 
married  three  years  before,  and  myself.  As  I  was  to  enter 
Harvard  the  following  year,  it  was  necessary  that  my  studies 
should  not  be  interrupted,  and  my  mother,  therefore,  secured 
as  my  tutor  to  go  with  us  Constant  Davis,  who  was  the 
eldest  son  of  Rear-Admiral  Davis,  and  whose  mother  was 
her  second  cousin  as  well  as  a  lifelong  and  most  intimate 
friend.  Of  Admiral  Davis  I  shall  have  much  to  say  later 
and  will  say  no  more  here.  But  of  my  tutor  Constant  Davis 
I  must  speak  now,  for  he  was,  although  unhappily  only  for 
a  short  time,  one  of  the  best,  one  of  the  most  fortunate  and 
most  salutary  influences  which  ever  came  into  my  life.  He 
had  graduated  from  Harvard  in  the  class  of  1864,  taking 
high  rank.  He  had  been  very  popular  in  his  class  and  had 
indeed  inspired  an  affection  and  admiration  among  some  of 
its  members,  whom  he  knew  best,  quite  unusual  for  so  young 
a  man.  He  was  a  gentleman  in  the  highest  and  best  sense 
of  the  word,  as  intrepid  morally  as  he  was  physically,  a 
scholar,  a  lover  of  literature,  with  an  exhaustless  fund  of 
humor,  and  a  charming  companion.  It  was  his  intention  to 
become  a  lawyer,  and  he  had  begun  to  study  for  the  bar 
when  his  health  became  impaired  and  the  first  signs  of  con- 

135 


136  EARLY  MEMORIES 

sumption,  to  which  he  was  soon  to  fall  a  victim,  had  already 
appeared.  It  was  largely  the  hope  that  a  change  of  climate 
might  be  of  benefit  which  had  led  my  mother  to  ask  him, 
and  which  had  induced  him  to  consent,  to  go  with  us  as  my 
tutor.  For  the  first  time,  under  his  guidance,  I  began  to 
get  a  little  real  education  and  to  regard  lessons  as  something 
other  than  an  infliction  devised  for  the  torment  of  boys. 
Wherever  we  stayed  for  any  length  of  time  my  studies  were 
regularly  carried  on.  No  one,  however  gifted,  could  make 
me  accept  mathematics  as  other  than  a  sore  affliction,  al- 
though I  learned  what  was  necessary  readily  enough  and 
forgot  it  all  with  equal  promptitude.  But  with  Constant 
Davis  I  discovered  for  the  first  time  that  Virgil  and  Homer 
were  not  created  solely  for  the  misery  of  schoolboys,  but 
were  great  poets  telling  noble  stories,  the  one  with  unequalled 
distinction  of  manner,  the  other  with  a  splendor  of  narra- 
tion never  surpassed,  and  with  the  freshness  and  simplicity 
of  a  world  still  young.  Then,  too,  I  also  discovered  that  the 
orations  of  Cicero  were  models  of  eloquence,  ranging  over 
the  whole  gamut  of  emotion  and  argument,  and  I  became 
deeply  interested  in  them  and  in  the  Rome  which  they  por- 
trayed. It  was  the  same  with  the  extracts  from  the  Greek 
poets  in  "Felton's  Reader/'  and  with  classical  history,  of 
which  I  was  expected  to  know  a  certain  amount.  But  my 
tutor's  influence  did  not  stop  there.  I  know  that  he  was 
fond  of  me,  but  he  did  not  hesitate  to  point  out  plainly,  al- 
though kindly,  my  faults  of  character.  I  remember  resent- 
ing frequently  what  he  said,  and  yet  was  much  affected  by  it 
even  if  I  did  not  admit  it  at  the  moment,  and  the  truth  of  his 
strictures  I  have  fully  recognized  ever  since.  He  did  more, 
however,  than  teach  me  my  lessons  or  try  to  improve  my 
ways  and  manners.  A  great  lover  of  literature  himself,  he 
led  me  on  to  read  Shakespeare,  of  whom  I  was  already  fond, 
and  when  I  had  made  a  beginning  not  only  stimulated  my 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  137 

love  for  the  plays  but  caused  me  to  understand  them  and  to 
perceive  beauties  and  appreciate  humor  which  I  had  before 
passed  over  undetected.  It  was  his  first  journey  to  Europe; 
he  had  a  most  alert,  inquiring  mind,  sensitive  to  all  forms 
of  beauty  and  to  every  kind  of  historic  association.  It  was 
his  intense  interest  in  everything  we  saw  which  led  me, 
although  I  was  at  an  age  which  is  usually  bored  by  sights, 
to  find  interest  and  pleasure  in  buildings  and  pictures  and 
historic  places  which  were  to  me  an  occupation  and  amuse- 
ment then,  and  which  became  the  source  of  much  of  the 
best  enjoyment  of  my  life  in  later  years,  when  I  was  able  to 
look  at  what  I  saw  with  more  considerate  eyes.  Immediately 
after  our  return  from  Europe  Constant  Davis,  whose  health 
had  not  improved,  went  as  secretary  with  his  father,  who 
had  been  ordered  to  the  command  of  the  South  Atlantic 
Squadron,  to  join  the  fleet  then  at  Rio  de  Janeiro.  There, 
before  the  year  was  out,  he  died.  He  was  one  of  the  best 
friends,  in  the  best  sense,  I  ever  had,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
finest  characters,  and,  if  it  was  possible  for  a  boy  to  judge, 
he  was  also  one  of  the  clearest  intellects  I  have  ever  known. 
I  have  dwelt  upon  my  close  association  with  Constant 
Davis  because  as  an  influence  upon  my  life  it  was  the  most 
important  contribution  of  that  year  of  travel.  But  those 
months  in  Europe  were  also  full  of  interest  to  me  in  other 
ways.  Even  in  1866  going  to  Europe  was  not  the  every- 
day matter  it  has  since  become,  and  improved  means  of 
communication  have  done  much,  while  the  rapid  growth  of 
the  United  States  in  wealth  and  luxury  has  done  still  more, 
to  obliterate  the  superficial  differences  in  modes  of  life,  in 
manners,  and  in  the  appliances  of  daily  existence,  and  espe- 
cially of  travel,  which  then  existed  in  a  very  marked  degree 
between  the  New  and  the  Old  World.  That  which  is  called 
progress  in  modern  civilization  seems  to  be  confined  to 
scientific  knowledge,  to  increased  altruism  and  a  larger  tol- 


138  EARLY  MEMORIES 

erance,  degenerating  sometimes  into  mere  feebleness  and 
indifference,  and  finally  to  mechanical  improvements,  where 
it  is  most  salient.  It  is  not  apparent  that  in  art  or  litera- 
ture or  intellect  the  race  has  advanced  at  all  beyond,  or  even 
equalled,  the  achievements  of  the  Greeks.  But  when  we 
come  to  scientific  knowledge,  and  to  the  development  and 
concentration  of  power  and  energy,  particularly  in  the  ap- 
plication of  steam  and  electricity,  the  two  mighty  forces 
which  are  really  new  to  the  world,  the  visible  change  and 
progress,  even  in  a  comparatively  short  time,  are  very 
marked. 

When  we  left  Boston  in  June,  1866,  we  sailed  in  the 
Africa,  not  one  of  the  best  steamships,  but  considered  a 
very  good  boat.  She  was  a  paddle-wheel  steamer,  with 
auxiliary  sail-power,  of  about  two  thousand  tons;  the  last 
steamship  in  which  I  crossed  the  ocean  was  of  twenty-five 
thousand  tons,  and  there  are  several  larger  than  this. 
The  Africa  depended  very  much  upon  her  sails,  stopped  at 
Halifax,  and  consumed  in  good  weather  a  round  fortnight 
in  getting  to  Liverpool.  She  had  a  poop-deck  over  the 
dining-saloon,  whence  one  descended  to  what  would  be 
called  the  spar-deck,  and  there  was  little  or  no  place  for 
walking  or  moving  about.  The  staterooms  were  aft  under 
the  spar-deck,  small,  dark,  with  one  miserable  oil  light, 
which  was  extinguished  at  ten  o'clock,  for  each  pair  of 
cabins,  with  port-holes  always  awash,  and  therefore  closed, 
while  the  entire  place  was  completely  unventilated  and 
reeked  with  the  smell  of  bilge-water.  There  was  nothing 
resembling  a  bathroom,  and  no  means  of  taking  a  bath 
except  by  going  on  deck  very  early  and  persuading  a  sea- 
man to  dash  salt  water  over  one  with  a  bucket.  Even  on 
the  poorest  ships  to-day  passengers,  I  think,  would  complain 
of  such  conditions,  but  then  they  were  universal  and  ac- 
cepted as  inseparable  from  an  Atlantic  voyage.  The  treat- 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  139 

ment  of  passengers  was  characteristic  of  the  Cunard  Com- 
pany at  that  day,  although  it  was  no  doubt  worse  on  some 
ships  than  on  others.  The  food  was  limited  in  quantity 
and  poor  in  quality.  The  ship  was  dirty,  the  service  was 
bad,  and  the  manners  of  the  ship's  company  rough  and  un- 
civil. If  any  one  complained,  and  this  was  true  for  many 
years  subsequently,  the  invariable  reply  was:  "The  Cunard 
Company  has  never  lost  a  passenger."  This  was  no  doubt 
highly  creditable,  but  as  a  reply  it  was  hardly  relevant. 
There  seemed  no  logical  reason  why,  because  one  escaped 
drowning,  one  should  be  subjected  to  every  sort  of  discom- 
fort and  neglect.  The  Cunard  Company  has  lost  a  good 
many  ships  since  1866,  and  in  late  years,  on  one  occasion, 
some  passengers  unfortunately,  who  were  swept  overboard. 
Their  former  stereotyped  reply,  therefore,  can  no  longer  be 
made,  and  I  am  informed  that  they  now  treat  their  passen- 
gers very  well,  and  not  as  if  it  was  a  favor  to  get  them  across 
the  North  Atlantic  like  cattle,  alive  and  with  unbroken 
limbs. 

The  theory  was  at  that  time  entertained  by  members 
of  my  family,  among  others,  that  a  paddle-wheel  was  stead- 
ier than  the  screw  steamers,  then  just  coming  into  fashion. 
The  side-wheelers  may  roll  less — after  my  first  journey  out 
and  home  I  never  crossed  the  ocean  in  another — but  they 
certainly  pitch  more,  and  not  even  a  channel  steamer  in  the 
heaviest  sea  could  have  performed  worse  gyrations  than  that 
wretched  Africa.  I  had  been  knocking  about  in  small  boats 
all  my  life,  but  I  succumbed  promptly  and  utterly  to  the 
Africa,  and  did  not  rally  or  get  up  on  deck  for  several  days. 
I  was  acutely  miserable,  and  longed  for  home.  It  was  then 
that  I  first  learned  all  the  profound  wisdom  and  humor  of 
Touchstone's  saying  which  Constant  Davis  repeated  to  me 
many  times:  "So  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden.  When  I  was 
at  home  I  was  in  a  better  place.  But  travellers  must  be 


140  EARLY  MEMORIES 

content."  Gradually,  however,  I  escaped  from  this  utter 
misery,  and  toward  the  end  of  the  voyage  began  to  enjoy 
myself.  There  were  many  pleasant  people  on  board,  friends 
of  ours  in  Boston,  who  all  knew  each  other  very  well,  and 
who  made  life  as  pleasant  as  it  could  be  under  existing 
conditions.  Among  the  passengers  was  Lawrence  Barrett, 
who  struck  up  a  friendship  with  Constant  Davis,  and  upon 
whom  I  gazed  with  the  eager  curiosity  which  a  distinguished 
actor  always  excited  in  my  mind  at  that  period.  It  seemed 
strange  to  me  to  see  him  going  about  just  like  any  one  else, 
for  I  felt  that  he  ought  to  wear  a  toga  and  a  green  mantle, 
and  deliver  the  great  oration  over  the  body  of  Caesar  as  I 
had  seen  him  do  it  years  before.  The  daily  existence  on 
shipboard  seemed  to  me  dull  and  slow,  as  I  have  always 
thought  it  since  after  the  sensation  of  rest  and  change,  so 
agreeable  in  the  first  days  of  a  voyage,  has  worn  off,  but  it 
was  all  so  new  to  me  then  that  I  found  it  more  exciting 
than  I  have  in  later  years,  and  there  were  many  little  events 
which  impressed  themselves  upon  me  at  that  time.  That 
which  I  best  remember,  however,  was  the  last  night  of  the 
voyage,  when  we  were  off  the  coast  of  Ireland.  I  had  never 
been  so  far  north,  and  the  long  twilight,  which  lasted  almost 
until  the  dawn  began  to  show  in  the  east,  made  upon  me  an 
ineffaceable  impression. 

Feeling  deeply  the  importance  of  my  journey,  I  resolved 
to  keep  a  journal.  I  have  made  many  such  resolutions  in 
the  course  of  my  life  but  have  never  succeeded  in  keeping 
either  journal  or  resolution  for  any  length  of  time,  and  my 
first  effort  was  no  exception  to  those  which  came  after  it  in 
later  years.  I  began  with  great  zeal,  fulness,  and  elabora- 
tion. Gradually  the  entries  dwindled,  then  became  ir- 
regular, and  at  the  end  of  six  months  ceased  altogether.  I 
find,  on  looking  over  the  old  pages  which  have  been  hidden 
away  for  forty  years,  that  I  wrote  down  methodically  what 


EUROPE:  1866-1867  141 

I  did,  and  described  what  I  saw  with  painstaking  accuracy. 
My  diary  exhibits  a  most  precocious  interest  in  sightseeing, 
but  it  is  all  so  dry;  so  devoid  of  imagination  or  humor,  that 
it  is  of  interest  to  no  human  being,  not  even  to  myself. 
Yet  I  will  nevertheless  quote  the  opening  lines  of  the  earli- 
est entry,  for  they  give  a  clear  first  impression,  and  one 
which,  curiously  enough,  I  have  never  seen  reason  to  alter. 

"July  1st,  Sunday,  Liverpool. 

"When  I  awoke  this  morning  I  found  the  ship  was  quiet  and 
that  we  had  really  arrived  at  Liverpool.  My  first  impression  on 
coming  on  deck  at  half  past  six  was  of  a  very  uninteresting  and 
dirty  looking  city  with  immense  docks.  The  River  Mersey  looks 
very  much  like  the  East  River  at  New  York.  At  seven  we  had  a 
most  unsatisfactory  breakfast  and  at  ten  the  custom  house  officers 
came  on  board  and  overhauled  our  trunks.  A  small  tender  came 
along  side  and  we  were  carried  to  the  city.  The  first  things  that 
I  noticed  were  the  carriages  especially  the  '  hansom  cabs '  with  a 
man  behind  driving  over  the  top;  the  four  wheelers  in  one  of  which 
we  came  up  are  the  meanest  little  conveyances  I  ever  saw." 

The  days  of  landing  in  a  tender  are  over  and  would 
greatly  surprise  the  modern  passengers  who  walk  from  their 
steamship  into  a  London  train,  but  the  character  of  the 
vanishing  four-wheelers  has  not  changed,  and  it  is  interest- 
ing to  note  that  at  that  time  a  hansom  cab  had  not  been 
seen  in  the  United  States,  and  was  regarded  by  me  as  a 
strange  vehicle,  familiar  only  in  the  pages  of  Punch  and  well 
worthy  of  note  in  my  journal. 

I  am  not  going  to  describe  our  travels  after  we  landed, 
for  I  have  never  had  any  ambition  to  write  a  guide-book, 
especially  one  designed  to  illuminate  beaten  paths.  I  shall 
merely  try  to  give  some  of  the  impressions  which  I  then  re- 
ceived, and  which  I  have  kept  ever  since  as  pleasant  memo- 
ries. To  a  boy  who  had  never  been  farther  afield  from  his  na- 
tive town  than  New  York  it  was  all  very  new  and  strange. 


142  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Moreover,  Europe,  as  I  have  already  said,  was  by  no  means 
as  familiar  to  Americans  forty  years  ago  as  it  is  now.  Com- 
paratively few  Americans  went  to  Europe  then;  I  mean  as 
compared  with  the  thousands  who  now  cross  the  Atlantic 
every  summer.  It  was  before  the  days  of  Cook's  excursions, 
of  round  trips  and  low  fares.  There  were  very  few  steam- 
ship lines;  indeed,  the  Cunard  boats  were  practically  the 
only  ones  which  people  generally  thought  of  using.  Then 
again,  as  I  have  also  said  before,  there  was  a  much  greater 
difference  in  modes  and  habits  of  life  between  America  and 
Europe  at  that  time  than  there  is  now,  owing  to  the  vast 
change  which  has  taken  place  in  frequency  and  closeness  of 
communication,  and  the  result  was  that  the  commonplaces 
of  to-day  seemed  then,  in  many  instances,  strange  and  in- 
teresting to  a  wanderer  from  the  United  States. 

We  stayed  a  day  or  two  in  Liverpool  and  saw  such  sights 
as  the  city  possessed,  including  a  wax-work  exhibition  where 
a  figure  of  Wilkes  Booth,  conspicuous  among  the  murderers, 
who  were  all  dressed  alike  in  black  frock  coats,  made  me 
feel  somewhat  at  home.  But  it  was  the  gloomy,  dingy 
hotel,  the  dark,  smoky  streets,  the  cloudy  sky,  which  dwell 
in  my  mind  still  as  the  sensations  that  most  keenly  empha- 
sized my  being  for  the  first  time  in  a  foreign  country. 

From  Liverpool  we  went  to  Leamington,  and  there  a  little 
incident  occurred  which  illustrates  the  remoteness  of  America 
from  England  in  1866.  My  brother-in-law  went  into  the  inn 
yard  to  order  carriages  for  the  next  day.  The  man  in  charge, 
a  stout  and  cheerful  person  of  the  Tony  Weller  type,  asked, 
after  the  order  had  been  given,  what  part  of  England  we 
came  from.  My  brother-in-law  said  that  we  were  Americans, 
to  which  the  rubicund  coachman  made  answer,  with  genu- 
ine surprise :  "  Why,  you  do  speak  English  uncommon  well, 
to  be  sure."  I  do  not  believe  that  any  Englishman  of  any 
class  would  to-day  express  surprise  at  hearing  an  American 


EUROPE:  1866-1867  143 

speak  English,  no  matter  how  much  our  dialect  might  differ 
from  his  own  particular  variety.  Yet  I  must  admit  that 
many  years  afterward  a  little  incident  befell  me  which  some- 
what impairs  this  generalization.  It  occurred  when  I  was  a 
member  of  the  House  of  Representatives.  I  was  walking 
through  the  Capitol  with  two  young  Englishmen  who  had 
brought  me  letters,  when  we  happened  to  pass  some  negroes 
—no  very  uncommon  sight  in  that  neighborhood.  One  of 
my  companions  turned  to  me  and  said:  "Why,  those  fellows 
were  speaking  English."  I  did  not  quite  take  in  what  he 
meant,  and  said:  "What  do  you  mean?"  "Why,"  he  re- 
plied, "it  is  quite  remarkable  that  they  should  have  learned 
English  so  well."  "They  have  been  here  for  two  or  three 
hundred  years,"  I  said,  "and  they  have  no  other  language. 
What  did  you  expect  them  to  speak — some  Congo  dialect?" 
From  Leamington  we  made  excursions  to  Warwick, 
Stratford,  and  Kenilworth.  Nothing  in  all  my  travels  since 
has  quite  equalled  the  vividness  of  those  first  impressions 
which  came  sharply  home  to  me  in  the  pleasant  June  days 
passed  in  Shakespeare's  country.  Warwick  satisfied  all 
that  my  imagination  had  conceived  a  feudal  castle  to  be, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  then  as  if  earth  could  offer  nothing 
equal  to  the  pleasure  of  owning  and  living  in  such  a  place. 
When  I  revisited  it  years  afterward  I  was  glad  to  find  that 
its  imposing  beauty  was  all  that  I  had  felt  it  to  be  when  I 
was  a  boy.  The  great  towers  and  walls,  the  moat,  the  bat- 
tlements, were  the  realization  of  the  scenes  of  which  I  had 
dreamed  in  reading  Scott.  It  was  much  more  satisfying 
than  Kenilworth,  which  was  too  much  of  a  ruin  to  content 
me,  although  the  scene  of  the  novel  was  full  of  meaning. 
Brought  up  to  a  blind  devotion  to  Shakespeare,  Stratford 
and  its  neighborhood  were  an  unending  delight,  and  I  ac- 
cepted every  tradition  and  every  tale  of  the  guide  with 
uncritical  satisfaction.  I  seemed  to  come  near  to  Shake- 


144  EARLY  MEMORIES 

speare  and  to  understand  his  actual  existence  as  never  be- 
fore. I  have  always  been  glad  that  my  first  impression  of 
a  foreign  country,  which  is  sure  to  be  keener  than  any  later 
one,  should  have  been  received  from  the  town  where  Shake- 
speare was  born  and  died,  and  where  he  lies  buried. 

From  Leamington  we  went  on  to  London.  The  great 
city  had  a  strangely  familiar  look  to  a  youthful  student  of 
Leech  and  Dickens,  and  the  crooked  streets  did  not  seem 
odd  to  a  native  of  Boston.  I  shall  not  describe  what  we 
saw,  because  they  were  merely  the  usual  sights,  nor  are  my 
somewhat  dim  memories  of  the  impressions  which  then 
crowded  fast,  one  upon  another,  worth  recording.  It  is 
the  fashion  now,  as  I  observe  in  books  and  letters,  to  speak 
with  contempt  of  sight-seeing  as  something  worthy  only  of 
the  Philistine,  which,  Leslie  Stephen  says,  is  the  name  a 
prig  gives  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  At  all  events,  I  must 
make  the  humiliating  confession  that,  as  my  youthful  diary 
shows,  I  have  always  been  fond  of  seeing  sights. 

"  For  to  admire  and  for  to  see, 
For  to  be'old  this  world  so  wide, 
It  never  did  no  good  to  me, 
But  I  can't  help  it  if  I  tried." 

I  have  never  tried  to  help  it  and  I  liked  sights  at  sixteen, 
an  age  of  easy  boredom,  almost  as  much  as  I  did  later. 
But  at  least  I  have  never  desired  to  give  an  account  of  my 
sight-seeing  or  to  write  books  of  travel,  and  I  shall  not  begin 
now.  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  leave  London  at  once  and 
recall  my  pleasantest  experience  during  my  first  visit  to 
England,  which  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  towers,  abbeys, 
or  museums. 

Mrs.  Russell  Sturgis  was  a  very  old  and  intimate  friend 
of  my  mother,  and  as  soon  as  we  reached  London  she 
came  to  see  us  and  insisted  that  we  should  all  come  to  them 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  145 

at  once  to  stay  for  a  fortnight  at  their  house,  Mount  Felix 
at  Walton-on-Thames.  Thither  we  accordingly  went  after 
a  brief  delay,  and  a  very  happy  fortnight  for  me  ensued. 
It  was  all  very  new  to  me,  the  mode  of  life,  the  people,  and 
the  place,  and  to  all  alike  I  look  back  with  real  affection. 
For  my  own  satisfaction  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  here 
about  some  of  the  kindest  and  best  people  I  have  ever 
known,  whose  goodness  and  hospitality  I  can  never  forget. 
In  what  I  write  here  and  hereafter  I  do  not  intend  to  con- 
fine myself  to  an  attempt  to  describe  merely  persons  of 
public  eminence  or  those  who  have  made  a  noise  in  the 
world,  and  with  whom  the  fortune  of  life  has  brought  me 
into  contact.  I  have  known  many  people  who  have  en- 
gaged my  affection  and  commanded  my  respect,  who  were 
as  interesting,  as  excellent  in  character,  and  as  useful  in 
their  respective  spheres  as  those  who  will  find  a  place  in  the 
histories  of  the  time.  Of  such  people  I  would  fain  make 
some  "trivial,  fond  record.'7  Thackeray  says  on  the  title- 
page  of  one  of  his  novels  that  it  is  the  "History  of  Philip 
on  his  way  through  the  world,  showing  who  robbed  him, 
who  helped  him  and  who  passed  him  by."  Of  the  first  and 
last  classes  I  shall  have  little  or  nothing  to  say  here.  Of 
those  who  helped  this  particular  "Philip"  I  hope  to  say  a 
great  deal. 

Mr.  Russell  Sturgis  was  a  member  of  a  well-known  Boston 
family.  He  had  been  for  many  years  in  China  in  the  great 
house  of  Russell  and  Company,  and  then,  on  the  invitation 
of  Mr.  Bates,  had  gone  to  London,  and  at  the  time  I  knew 
him  first  was  one  of  the  principal  partners  in  Baring  Brothers. 
He  was  then  past  sixty  and  one  of  the  handsomest  men  I 
have  ever  seen.  It  is  rare  to  find  an  elderly  man  who  is 
not  only  distinguished-looking,  but  so  clearly  handsome  in 
face  and  figure,  as  to  impress  a  boy,  who  naturally  turns 
away  from  age  without  either  understanding  or  appreciation. 


146  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Mr.  Sturgis  was  as  genial,  cordial,  warm-hearted,  and  full 
of  fun  and  humor  as  he  was  good-looking,  and,  although  I 
justly  felt  that  a  partner  in  the  Barings  was  a  highly  impor- 
tant personage,  I  never  was  conscious  of  any  shyness  or  stiff- 
ness when  I  was  with  him.  Mrs.  Sturgis,  like  her  husband, 
was  very  handsome  and  was  also  a  very  clever  and  most 
charming  woman,  whose  untiring  kindness  to  me  and  mine 
I  shall  ever  remember. 

There  were  four  children.  Harry,  the  eldest,  was  at 
Oxford,  although  just  then  at  home  for  his  vacation.  I 
looked  up  to  him  as  a  person  of  immense  age  and  distinction, 
much  more  remote  from  me  than  his  father  and  mother, 
because  I  was  well  able  to  measure  the  awful  distance  which 
separated  a  schoolboy  from  a  "man"  in  college.  Never- 
theless he  was  kindness  itself,  and  took  me  out  to  row  on 
the  river  and  to  swim  with  him  in  its  placid  waters.  The 
second  son,  Julian,  somewhat  older  than  myself,  and  after- 
ward well  known  as  a  refined  and  graceful  writer,  was  a 
clever,  handsome  boy,  still  at  Eton,  whither  I  went  one  day 
to  see  him,  and  where  I  was  duly  fascinated  by  the  old 
school  and  by  the  famous  playing-fields  immortalized  in 
the  phrase  which,  I  believe  it  is  now  said,  was  never  uttered 
by  Wellington.  The  only  daughter  of  the  house,  May,  was 
just  my  age;  but,  although  she  was  most  kind  to  me  and  I 
liked  her  very  much,  my  view  of  girls  and  girls'  society  at 
that  time  of  life  was  not  at  all  what  it  should  have  been. 
The  youngest  of  the  family,  Howard,  was  very  much 
younger  than  I  and  consequently  I  looked  down  upon  him, 
kindly  of  course,  but  still  as  one  far  below  me  in  the  scale 
of  being.  He  too  has  become  an  author,  and  has  written 
some  remarkable  stories,  each  stronger  than  the  preceding 
one.  His  last  novel,  "Belchamber,"  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful  novels  of  the  time,  very  painful  but  convincing  and 
realistic  in  a  high  degree. 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  147 

There  were  no  others  in  the  household  near  my  age,  but 
there  was  always  a  houseful  of  people.  Miss  Mary  Adams, 
the  daughter  of  our  minister,  was  there,  and,  although  she 
seemed  very  remote  from  a  schoolboy's  level,  her  presence 
gave  me  the  refreshing  sense  that  we  were  not  wholly  cut  off 
from  Boston  or  from  people  who  knew  about  us  and  who  we 
were.  I  will  not,  however,  enumerate  all  the  many  visitors 
who  came  and  went  during  that  pleasant  fortnight.  I  re- 
call only  one  who  stands  out  with  especial  distinctness,  and 
that  was  General  Hamley,  a  friend  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sturgis. 
He  was  an  officer  of  distinction,  chiefly,  I  think,  on  account 
of  a  book  which  he  had  written  on  "Tactics,"  or  some 
similar  military  topic  in  regard  to  which  he  was  then  an 
authority.  He  had  also  written  a  novel,  "Lady  Leigh's 
Widowhood,"  which  had  a  good  deal  of  temporary  vogue. 
If  I  had  then  known  of  Jerrold's  famous  question:  "Pray, 
sir,  are  you  anybody  in  particular?"  I  should  have  felt  sure 
that  it  must  have  been  addressed  to  General  Hamley.  As 
it  was,  I  only  gazed  at  him  in  unregarded  silence  and  won- 
dered why  he  hated  my  country  so  much.  He  was  really 
a  living  explanation  of  the  intense  American  hostility  to 
England,  for  he  was  full  of  that  unreasoning  dislike  of 
Americans  which  was  such  an  amiable  trait  in  some  Eng- 
lishmen of  that  day.  I  suppose  that  it  was  hard  enough 
to  pardon  us  for  existing,  and  just  at  that  moment  it  was 
probably  impossible  to  forgive  us  for  having  won  in  the 
Civil  War,  which  General  Hamley  at  least  had  no  wish  to 
do.  Not  long  before  our  arrival  Wendell  Holmes,  the  son 
of  Doctor  Holmes,  and  now  a  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
had  been  in  England.  He  had  served  through  the  war  with 
distinguished  gallantry,  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  colonel, 
had  been  three  times  badly  wounded,  and  had  come  to 
England  for  a  well-earned  rest  and  vacation.  He  was 
young,  brilliant  in  intellect,  full  of  life  and  energy,  and 
fresh  from  a  great  experience.  He  had  seen  larger  armies, 


148  EARLY  MEMORIES 

greater  and  more  desperate  battles,  and  had  witnessed 
heavier  losses  in  action  than  General  Hamley  had  ever 
known  outside  of  books.  He  dined  at  the  Sturgises'  one 
evening,  and  General  Hamley  took  occasion  to  put  the  of- 
fender in  his  proper  place  by  asking :  "  Colonel  Holmes;  could 
you  train  your  men  to  fight  in  line?"  " Train  our  men  to 
fight  in  line !  Why,  General  Hamley,  you  can  train  monkeys 
to  fight  in  line."  At  this  point  the  conversation  seems  to 
have  broken  off,  the  distinguished  general  being  rather  hap- 
pier in  giving  offence  than  in  meeting  a  retort.  To  the  suc- 
cessors and  imitators  of  General  Hamley  I  always  feel 
tempted  to  repeat  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  wise  words: 
"Let  him  hold  on  and  he  will  find  one  country  as  good 
as  another;  and  in  the  meanwhile  let  him  resist  the  fatal 
British  tendency  to  communicate  his  dissatisfaction  with  a 
country  to  its  inhabitants.  'Tis  a  good  idea,  but  somehow 
it  fails  to  please." 

I  do  not  for  a  moment  mean  to  suggest  that  all  English- 
men felt  as  General  Hamley  did  toward  Americans.  There 
were  many  English  people  in  the  Sturgis  house  when  we 
were  there  who  were  kind,  friendly,  and  well-bred.  Indeed, 
I  objected  far  more  to  an  old  American  copperhead  who  was 
among  the  guests,  and  who  was  infinitely  more  offensive  to 
me  than  General  Hamley  or  any  one  else.  Fresh  from  war 
scenes,  I  would  have  greatly  liked  to  have  thrown  this  par- 
ticular countryman  of  mine  into  the  river.  The  objection 
lay  not  against  Englishmen,  but  only  against  those  of  the 
Hamley  type  who  seem,  unfortunately,  to  have  been  for  a 
century  past,  and  until  quite  recently,  a  controlling  influ- 
ence in  England  so  far  as  public  opinion  and  public  action 
were  concerned.  They  apparently  were  able  to  inspire 
Canning  with  his  unwise  malevolence  toward  the  United 
States  in  1810,  and  Gladstone  and  Lord  John  Russell  with 
their  blundering  hostility  fifty  years  later. 

After  the  Revolution  England's  obvious  policy  was  to  re- 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  149 

establish  good  relations  with  the  United  States,  and  detach 
them  from  France  and  Napoleon.  It  could  have  been  easily 
done,  but  English  ministers  preferred  to  heap  upon  us  every 
form  of  wrong,  insult,  and  contempt  which  could  be  devised, 
and  they  secured  as  a  reward  the  War  of  1812.  In  that 
war  they  lost  forever  all  their  pretensions  to  interfere  with 
American  commerce  and  American  seamen.  They  also  lost 
eleven  frigate  actions  out  of  thirteen,  and  were  beaten  in 
two  fleet  actions  on  the  Lakes,  which  did  not  add  to  their 
naval  prestige.  I  have  never  been  able  to  see  in  what  way 
Canning's  policy  paid.  It  seems  to  me  to  have  been  unin- 
telligent to  the  last  degree,  and  the  wounds  left  by  the  War 
of  1812  were  kept  open  and  smarting  by  the  judicious  efforts 
of  English  writers  and  travellers.  Then  came  the  Civil 
War,  and  again  England  had  an  opportunity  to  bind  the 
United  States  to  her  by  bonds  of  gratitude  which  could  not 
have  been  broken.  The  policy  she  adopted  was  such  that 
the  North  was  left  with  a  sense  of  bitter  wrong  and  outrage, 
and  the  South  with  a  conviction  that  they  had  been  uselessly 
deceived  and  betrayed.  The  treaty  of  Washington  and 
years  of  bitter  feeling,  only  dispersed  at  last  by  England's 
wise  attitude  nearly  forty  years  later,  at  the  time  of  the 
Spanish  war,  were  the  result  of  her  policy  during  the  war 
between  the  States.  Again  I  ask,  Did  the  attitude  taken  by 
England  from  1861  to  1865  profit  her?  If  the  purpose  was 
to  gratify  jealousy,  malice,  and  contempt  it  seems  to  me 
that  a  heavy  price  was  paid  and  nothing  gained.  But  I  do 
not  believe  that  there  was  anything  so  intelligent  as  the 
gratification  of  malice  or  jealousy  to  be  found  in  England's 
policy  at  that  time.  I  think  it  was  mere  stupidity,  and  of 
such  magnitude  as  to  be  tragic  if  we  consider  the  conditions. 
Stupidity,  allied  with  the  invincible  desire  to  cant  and 
preach,  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  British  contempt  for  the  out- 
sider, whether  in  riding  or  fighting  or  the  management  of 


150  EARLY  MEMORIES 

governments.  The  doctrine  seems  to  be  that  because  we 
English  think  that  we  do  well,  and  think  so  no  doubt  very 
justly,  we  must  therefore  refuse  to  admit  that  any  one  else 
can  do  well  too.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  England  of  this 
day — the  England  of  Balfour  and  Lansdowne,  of  Rosebery 
and  Bryce  and  Harcourt  and  Grey — has  made  a  great  and 
wise  advance  in  the  interest  of  their  own  country  by  their 
changed  attitude  toward  the  United  States,  and  by 
abandoning  the  old  habit  of  contemptuous  incivility.  No 
doubt  the  complete  indifference  of  the  United  States  to 
English  opinion  which  has  replaced  our  former  sensitive- 
ness has  had  much  to  do  with  this  alteration,  but  I  wish 
to  give  all  due  credit  to  wiser  counsels  and  larger  knowledge 
among  the  English  leaders  of  all  kinds  to-day.  Some  of 
the  old  sort  who  still  lag  superfluous  upon  the  stage,  and 
who  are  as  impervious  to  facts  as  they  are  destitute  of 
manners,  appear  occasionally,  like  Swettenham  recently  in 
Jamaica.  But  they  are  looked  upon  as  odd  survivals,  who 
are  regarded  with  amusement  in  America,  and  are  con- 
demned in  England  by  all  whose  opinions  are  important 
to  the  good  relations  between  the  two  countries  which  are 
so  much  to  be  sought  and  cherished  by  all  sensible  men. 
The  American  copperhead  and  the  English  foe  weighed 
but  little,  however,  forty  years  ago  upon  the  mind  or  spirits 
of  sixteen.  I  was  altogether  too  contented  with  my  sur- 
roundings, too  fully  occupied,  and  was  enjoying  myself  too 
much  to  worry  about  either.  Mount  Felix  was  a  delightful 
place.  It  was  not  large,  but  a  fine  lawn  stretched  away  at 
the  back,  running  along  the  river  and  edged  with  noble  trees. 
The  quiet  beauty,  the  repose,  the  air  of  completion,  although 
I  could  not  analyze  my  sensations  then,  were  all  eminently 
satisfying.  The  feeling  that  the  land  had  been  so  long 
subdued,  that  so  many  generations  had  succeeded  each 
other  in  those  pleasant  fields,  that  there  had  been  time  to 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  151 

finish  and  refine,  has  a  peculiar  attraction  to  an  American. 
This  is  the  compelling  charm  of  the  English  landscape.  I 
have  felt  it  always,  and  many  times  since  those  early  days, 
for  it  never  departs,  although  in  after-years  I  have  often 
wondered  where  those  bold  and  striking  scenes  were  to  be 
found  which  are  so  frequently  described  in  English  novels. 
To  American  eyes  it  all  seems  mild  and  gentle.  The  moun- 
tains are  what  we  call  hills,  and  I  remember  my  disappoint- 
ment when  I  saw  the  cliffs  at  Dover  and  thought  what  a 
vision  I  had  cherished  "of  him  who  gathers  samphire;  dread- 
ful trade!"  Of  course  there  are  parts  of  the  coast  where  the 
headlands  are  as  bold  as  they  are  beautiful,  and  the  sea 
naturally  has  the  same  splendor  as  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic.  But  much  as  I  grew  to  love  the  English  landscape, 
there  always  came  a  time  when  the  feeling  that  it  is  too  con- 
scious, that  it  suggests  a  quality  which  in  "Tartarin"  Daudet 
has  called  "  decor, "  comes  over  me.  Then  I  begin  to  long  for 
the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  native  land,  because  I 
have  not  been  sufficiently  educated  to  feel,  like  Mr.  Norton, 
that  the  outline  of  American  mountains  is  "vulgar,"  or  to  do 
otherwise  than  rejoice  in  our  vast  spaces,  in  the  brilliant  sun- 
light, the  radiant  blue  of  the  heavens,  and  the  transparent 
atmosphere  of  America.  Mist,  veiled  lights,  wet  soft  clouds, 
and  darkness  visible  always  make  me  homesick  after  a  time, 
however  much  I  feel  their  artistic  value  and  the  delicate 
effects  of  light  and  shade  which  soften  and  blur  all  outlines 
and  leave  nothing  sharply  defined. 

From  Mount  Felix  we  returned  to  London,  and  there  I 
met  my  father's  English  cousins,  two  brothers,  Mr.  John 
Lodge  Ellerton  and  Mr.  Adam  Lodge.  Mr.  Ellerton  in  after- 
years  came  to  my  mind  when  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Major  Pendennis.  His  good  manners,  his  agreeableness, 
his  somewhat  made-up  appearance,  his  knowledge  of  people 
and  of  the  world,  were  all  suggestive  of  Arthur's  old  uncle 


152  EARLY  MEMORIES 

and  of  the  friend  of  Lord  Steyne,  but  Mr.  Ellerton  really 
belonged  to  the  period  of  Pelham,  and  his  dress  and  out- 
ward man  were  still  in  a  modified  conformity  with  the  stand- 
ard of  that  hero  and  his  creator.  He  had  been  a  young 
man  about  town  in  the  days  of  William  IV,  and  being  both 
good-looking  and  intelligent,  had  had  his  little  success  in 
the  London  world.  He  was  devoted  to  music  and  was  a 
voluminous  composer,  as  the  dictionaries  show.  But  al- 
though possessed  of  great  technical  knowledge,  facility,  and 
capacity,  he  had,  unfortunately,  nothing  to  say,  and  his  ora- 
torios and  songs  are  as  dead  now  as  the  days  in  which  they 
were  written.  He  had  married  the  widow  of  a  Mr.  Manners- 
Sutton,  who  was,  I  believe,  Lady  Theresa  Saville,  a  daughter 
of  Lord  Scarborough.  She  had  died  some  years  before  our 
arrival,  and  Mr.  Ellerton  lived  alone  in  their  house  in  Con- 
naught  Place,  whither  we  duly  went  to  dine. 

No  greater  contrast  could  have  been  imagined  than  that 
which  was  presented  by  Mr.  Ellerton's  brother,  Mr.  Adam 
Lodge,  when  they  both  came  to  dine  with  us  at  our  hotel. 
He  was  an  old  bachelor,  a  barrister  living  in  chambers 
in  the  Temple,  and  passing  his  life  there  and  at  his  club, 
the  "  Oxford  and  Cambridge."  He  was  a  man  of  bookish 
habits  and  solitary  life.  He  came  into  our  room  that 
evening  blinking  as  if  he  had  just  escaped  into  the  light 
from  some  dark  prison,  and  he  was  shy  to  such  a  painful 
degree  that  it  made  every  one  else  uneasy.  He  greeted  us 
all,  including  Mr.  Ellerton,  solemnly  and  stiffly,  and  hardly 
said  a  word  during  the  rest  of  the  evening.  After  he  had 
gone  Mr.  Ellerton  said  to  my  mother:  "My  brother  has 
not  spoken  to  me  for  twenty  years,  owing  to  some  miser- 
able difference  about  a  suit  in  chancery.  You  see,  you  have 
done  one  good  deed  in  asking  us  both  to  dinner."  They  re- 
mained friends  from  that  time  forward.  Mr.  Ellerton  died 
soon  after  we  returned  to  America,  but  Mr.  Lodge  I  saw 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  153 

again  when  I  was  in  England  in  1871  and  1872,  and  I  kept 
up  a  fitful  correspondence  with  him  until  his  death.  They 
were  two  interesting  men,  who  seemed  strange  to  me  and 
unlike  any  one  I  had  ever  seen.  Both  were  university  men, 
both  men  of  cultivated  tastes,  but  there  the  resemblance 
between  them  ceased.  One  had  lived  out  his  life  a  solitary 
old  bachelor  in  musty  chambers  in  the  Temple,  the  other 
had  been  a  man  of  the  world  and  successful  according  to 
the  success  he  desired.  They  came  into  my  life  only  for  a 
moment,  but  they  interested  me  and  seemed  to  me  then 
and  afterwards  to  explain  and  make  clear  characters  and 
phases  of  life  in  English  novels  with  which  I  was  familiar, 
but  which  I  had  failed  to  understand  intimately  and  in- 
stinctively. 

While  I  was  in  London  I  went  much  to  the  theatre,  and 
remember  particularly  seeing  Sothern  in  Lord  Dundreary. 
I  also  went  to  the  opera,  and  the  one  which  I  now  recall  with 
clearness  was  "Lucrezia  Borgia,"  with  Titiens  as  Lucrezia 
and  Mario  as  Gennaro.  Mario  was  a  fine-looking  man  and 
an  imposing  figure  on  the  stage.  He  had  his  "  bel  momento  " 
and  sang  one  song  beautifully,  but  that  was  all.  His  voice 
was  gone,  and  I  do  not  recollect  any  account  of  him  as  ap- 
pearing again  in  opera.  I  am  very  glad,  however,  that  I 
heard  him  once,  as  he  was  one  of  the  surviving  heroes  of  an 
earlier  generation  of  opera-goers.  I  was  fortunate,  too,  in 
hearing  another  and  much  greater  celebrity  of  the  days 
before  my  own.  In  my  diary  I  find  this  entry  on  July  11: 
"In  the  evening  we  went  to  a  concert  to  hear  Jenny  Lind. 
She  has  the  most  beautiful  voice  I  ever  heard.  The  rest  of 
the  concert  was  tolerable."  She  was  a  plain  woman,  very 
simply  dressed,  and  looked  elderly  to  my  youthful  eyes. 
She  sang,  among  other  things,  one  or  two  old  English  songs, 
which  I  particularly  remember,  and  her  voice  seemed  to  me 
the  most  wonderful  I  had  ever  listened  to.  It  had  a  quality 


154  EARLY  MEMORIES 

of  beauty  which  dwells  with  me  still  and  which  I  have  never 
heard  surpassed. 

From  London  we  went  to  the  Continent.  My  mother 
desired  very  naturally  to  follow,  so  far  as  might  be  the  line  of 
her  travels  in  1837,  when  people  still  made  a  "grand  tour." 
So  we  went  first  to  Brussels,  thence  up  the  Rhine,  then 
through  Switzerland,  where  I  trudged  up  and  down  a  good 
many  mountains,  which  involved  simply  long  walks,  and 
so  on  to  Geneva,  and  from  there  to  Paris. 

The  second  empire  was  then  in  all  its  glory  so  far  as 
outward  show  was  concerned,  and  few  people  suspected 
that  it  was  rotten  to  the  core.  Fewer  still  realized  what  a 
deadly  blow  had  been  dealt  to  it  by  the  failure  of  the  Mex- 
ican expedition.  Nothing,  indeed,  could  have  been  worse 
than  the  conduct  of  France  to  the  United  States  during  the 
Civil  War.  It  had  been  far  more  hostile  than  that  of  Eng- 
land, but  nobody  cared,  because  we  had  expected  nothing 
from  France,  while  we  had  counted  upon  support  and  sym- 
pathy from  England,  believing  that  England  at  least  would 
understand  the  situation.  But  the  men  charged  with  the 
government  at  Washington  knew  well  what  a  deadly  blow 
France  had  aimed  at  us  in  Mexico  when  our  hands  were 
tied,  and  so  when  our  hands  were  loose  our  administration 
forced  the  French  troops  out  of  Mexico  and  stood  by  un- 
moved while  the  unhappy  victim  of  the  Emperor's  cheap, 
showy,  dishonest  policy,  a  beggarly  imitation  of  his  uncle's 
vast  schemes,  crossed  with  a  speculation  in  bonds,  went 
bravely  to  his  death.  If  any  people  on  earth  had  good 
reason  to  despise  and  to  understand  the  second  empire  and 
all  that  it  meant,  it  was  the  people  of  the  United  States. 
But  I  do  not  think  that  we  were  any  wiser  than  our  neigh- 
bors, and  certainly  all  that  a  boy  of  sixteen  saw  or  cared 
to  see  was  the  fair  outside  of  the  imperial  government, 
which  was  dazzling  enough  to  blind  even  better  eyes  than 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  155 

those  of  the  Parisians  for  whom  it  was  all  particularly  de- 
signed. 

In  any  event  my  memories  of  that  autumn  in  Paris  are 
all  of  the  most  cheerful  and  agreeable  kind,  suffused  with 
the  warm  light  of  pleasure,  novelty,  and  enjoyment.  I 
saw  all  the  sights  I  ought  to  have  seen,  and  by  my  own 
efforts  and  with  the  help  of  our  friendly  courier  a  good  many 
that  the  better  opinion  of  my  family,  if  consulted,  would 
have  decided  that  I  should  do  well  to  avoid.  At  the  risk 
of  appearing  hardened  I  may  say  that  I  have  never  regretted 
the  sights  of  either  kind  and  that  neither  did  me  any  seri- 
ous harm,  although  those  which  were  suitable  bored  me  a 
little,  because  I  liked  their  rivals  of  dubious  character  much 
better. 

But  the  whole  pageant  of  life  in  Paris  just  then  was  very 
brilliant  and  very  imposing  too.  Not  only  were  there 
plenty  of  troops  in  uniform  to  be  seen  about  the  streets,  but 
there  was  great  activity  in  business  and  an  abundance  of 
amusements  also.  The  Champs-Ely  sees  in  the  afternoon, 
especially  on  a  race-day,  were  very  gay,  and  the  horses  and 
carriages  which  filled  the  broad  avenue  in  a  continuous 
stream  were  good  and  on  the  whole  well  turned  out.  They 
were  not  turned  out  with  the  same  perfection  as  in  Hyde 
Park,  but  they  were  showy  and  effective.  I  take  from  my 
diary  the  account  of  the  day  when  I  not  only  saw  the  crowds 
in  the  Champs-Elysees  to  the  best  advantage,  but  also  a 
fine  review. 

PARIS,  Monday,  Nov.  5th,  1866. 

At  half  past  one  we  went  to  see  a  grand  review  by  the  Emperor 
in  person  which  took  place  on  the  race  course  of  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne. There  were  about  twenty  thousand  troops  there  including 
infantry,  cavalry  and  artillery.  The  infantry  were  not  as  good 
as  I  expected.  They  did  not  wheel  well,  any  of  them,  not  even 
the  celebrated  Turcos.  But  the  cavalry  were  very  fine  and  very 


156  EARLY  MEMORIES 

showy  in  uniform;  the  finest  body  of  men,  as  I  thought,  on  the 
field  were  the  Cent  Garde,  a  picked  squadron  of  cavalry  belonging 
to  the  Emperor.  They  were  all  men  over  six  feet,  dressed  in  a 
uniform  of  blue  and  red,  with  a  shining  steel  breastplate  and  hel- 
met of  the  same  material  with  long  white  horse  tails  hanging  be- 
hind. They  were  all  good  looking  men  and  mounted  on  splendid 
black  horses.  The  Emperor  first  rode  over  the  field  in  front  of 
the  regiments  drawn  up  in  line  and  then  stopping  in  front  of  the 
grand  stand  had  all  the  troops  pass  in  review  before  him.  This 
was  much  the  best  part  of  the  whole  review  and  gave  you  the  best 
view  of  all  the  troops.  The  concluding  thing  of  the  whole  was 
splendid.  All  the  cavalry  drew  up  on  one  side  of  the  field  in  a 
long  line  and  then  charged  across  the  field  and  pulled  up  suddenly 
in  front  of  the  Emperor.  We  had  no  good  view  of  the  Emperor 
as  we  had  to  look  at  him  through  opera  glasses,  but  as  I  had  had  a 
very  good  view  of  him  a  few  days  before  when  he  was  driving  in 
the  street,  both  of  him  and  the  Empress,  I  did  not  mind  much. 
The  Emperor  was  accompanied  throughout  the  review  by  the 
Empress  and  the  Prince  Imperial,  both  on  horseback.  I  enjoyed 
the  whole  review  more  than  anything  I  had  seen  in  Paris.  We 
also  saw  the  celebrated  General  Canrobert  a  very  fine  looking  old 
man  covered  with  the  greatest  profusion  of  medals  and  decora- 
tions of  all  sorts. 


I  remember  very  well  the  afternoon  when  I  saw  the 
Emperor  and  Empress  returning  from  a  review  at  Long- 
champs.  She  was  then  very  pretty  and  graceful  and  looked 
like  her  pictures,  which  I  had  stared  at  in  the  shop  windows. 
She  smiled  and  bowed,  and  I  thought  that  she  seemed  very 
pleasant  and  friendly.  The  Emperor,  too,  looked  just  as  I 
had  expected.  He  raised  his  hat  at  short  intervals,  but  his 
face  was  expressionless  and  unsympathetic.  I  gazed  at 
him  with  intense  interest,  for  I  supposed  him  to  be  a  very 
great  man,  very  mysterious,  one  whose  word  would  affect 
the  destinies  of  Europe,  and  I  imagined  that  he  was  always 
revolving  dark  and  intricate  schemes,  concealed  by  what 
even  I  could  see  was  an  ordinary,  uninspiring  face,  as  rigid, 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  157 

in  public  at  least,  as  a  mask.  In  this  feeling  I  merely  re- 
flected the  popular  idea,  which  a  boy  absorbs  without  effort 
from  the  current  talk  and  from  the  atmosphere  about  him. 
Nevertheless  when  I  saw  the  Emperor,  as  I  did  several  times, 
although  this  particular  occasion  left  the  most  vivid  impress 
upon  my  memory,  I  was  conscious  of  a  strong  sensation  of 
disappointment.  The  actual  man  fell  far  short  of  what  I  had 
imagined.  Yet  the  opinion  I  had  formed  was  wrong,  and 
the  instinctive  feeling  of  disappointment  was  right.  The 
Emperor  had  the  talents  of  a  conspirator  in  a  high  degree. 
He  also  had  the  gift,  which  is  serviceable  to  so  many  lesser 
men,  of  holding  his  tongue  and  looking  wise,  the  surest  way 
in  which  a  commonplace  man  can  gain  a  great  reputation, 
not  only  for  sagacity  but  for  ability  and  force,  because 
nothing  is  more  imposing  than  the  unknown.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  the  third  Napoleon  was  a  man  of  ordinary  capacity, 
weak,  hesitating,  easily  influenced,  and,  if  not  corrupt  him- 
self, at  least  indifferent  to  corruption  in  others.  When  the 
mask  was  torn  off,  in  1870,  all  the  world  saw  the  man  as  he 
really  was,  but  very  few  understood  him  in  1866,  and  even 
his  enemies,  who  thought  him  wicked  and  cruel,  believed  him 
to  be  able,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other. 

On  that  same  day  when  I  watched  the  Emperor  return- 
ing from  Longchamps  I  saw  with  him  what  interested  me 
quite  as  much  as  the  great  man  himself,  and  that  was  the 
Cent-Garde,  who  accompanied  the  carriages  and  to  whom  I 
alluded  in  my  diary.  I  thought  then,  and  I  think  still,  that 
in  equipment  and  appearance  they  were  the  finest-looking 
troops  imaginable.  All  picked  men  on  superb  horses,  with 
glittering  corselets  and  helmets,  nothing  could  have  been 
more  brilliant,  more  exhilarating  than  the  vision  of  shining 
silver  and  glistening  steel  which  they  presented  as  they 
flashed  by  at  a  gallop  to  keep  up  with  the  quick-moving  car- 


158  EARLY  MEMORIES 

riage.  There  were  many  soldiers  to  be  seen  in  and  about 
Paris  in  those  days,  including  the  Spahis;  who  greatly  excited 
my  curiosity.  Very  well  they  looked,  too,  in  my  opinion,  and 
I  was  fresh  from  seeing  the  veterans  of  a  great  war.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  troops  were  good.  There  is  nothing  more 
tragic  in  modern  history  than  the  gallant  fighting  of  the 
French  armies  when  the  war  with  Prussia  came.  Badly  led, 
badly  officered  in  the  highest  grades,  with  no  plans,  with  an 
Emperor  hesitating  and  incapable,  ruining  all  by  his  feeble 
indecision,  the  French  soldiers  flung  themselves  into  the 
hopeless  struggle  with  all  the  courage  of  their  race.  If  not 
betrayed  in  the  narrow  meaning  of  the  word,  they  were  in 
the  larger  sense,  for  the  government  of  the  second  empire, 
with  its  glittering  exterior,  beneath  which  all  was  unsound 
and  rotten,  was  one  vast  betrayal  of  France. 

This  shining  surface  spread  over  everything  in  1866,  and 
the  dark  cracks  in  the  varnish  had  hardly  begun  to  show. 
Most  characteristic  of  the  time  were  the  Offenbach  operas, 
which  just  then  were  all  the  rage.  They  are  conspicuous 
in  my  memories  of  that  first  experience  in  Paris.  Where  so 
much  has  grown  vague  and  misty,  that  music  still  sounds 
sharply  in  my  ears.  I  saw  Schneider,  who  " created"  the 
roles,  in  "Orphee,"  in  the  "Belle  Helene,"  and  in  "Barbe- 
Bleue."  She  was  then  a  person  of  somewhat  opulent  charms, 
good-looking,  clever,  notorious  on  the  stage  which  she  dom- 
inated, vulgar,  audacious,  effective.  I  have  often  thought 
since  how  she  and  those  operas  embodied  the  time.  They 
were  together  but  a  passing  show,  and  yet  they  seem  to  me 
now  to  have  meant  much,  for  the  music  filled  the  air  and 
pervaded  the  streets  as  the  woman  who  interpreted  them 
filled  and  pervaded  the  stage.  Offenbach's  music  is  perfect 
of  its  kind.  For  light,  comic  operas  nothing  has  ever  sur- 
passed it,  and  the  composer  was  a  thorough  musician.  The 
taking  airs  frothed  up  like  a  glass  of  champagne  and  van- 


EUROPE:  1866-1867  159 

ished  like  the  gleaming  bubbles  of  the  wine.  And  yet,  per- 
fect as  it  was  of  its  kind,  it  left  a  bad  taste  behind  it.  Two 
of  the  most  successful  of  the  operas  drew  their  fun  from  the 
degradation  of  two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Greek  myths. 
The  "  Grande  Duchesse"  had,  I  am  sure,  a  deep  effect  in 
breeding  in  the  French  mind  a  contempt  for  the  Germans 
and  the  German  army,  a  grotesque  and  absurd  mistake,  for 
which  France  paid  heavily  when  the  day  of  reckoning  came. 
It  was  all  gay  and  fascinating  and  delightful  to  the  onlooker 
in  1866,  but  at  bottom  it  was  meretricious  and  insincere, 
dangerous  when  taken  seriously  for  a  worthy  art,  as  was 
the  case  at  that  time.  And  then  I  remember  seeing  Cora 
Pearl,  who  was  pointed  out  to  me  in  the  Bois  one  day.  She 
was  one  of  the  figures,  one  of  the  sights  of  Paris — handsome, 
especially  on  a  horse,  hard,  flagrant,  notorious.  It  seems  to 
me  now  not  without  significance  that  what  a  boy  remem- 
bered most  vividly  as  the  salient  sights  of  Paris  in  1866 
should  be  the  troops,  Offenbach's  operas,  and  a  fashionable 
courtesan.  A  boy  does  not  consider  or  look  deeply,  but 
takes  in  what  is  on  the  surface,  emphatic  and  obvious  to  the 
eyes  of  all  men,  and  these  were  the  sights  of  Paris  then  from 
which  there  was  no  escape.  It  is  not  without  meaning  and 
seems  to  me  now  to  suggest  the  story  of  the  second  empire. 
I  had  a  glimpse  of  another  kind  of  Parisian  life  which 
also  left  an  enduring  impression.  Ben.  Peirce,  the  son  of 
Professor  Peirce,  the  eminent  mathematician,  who  had 
graduated  from  Harvard  the  year  before,  was  completing 
his  education  at  the  Ecole  Polytechnique  and  lived  in  two 
small  rooms  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  An  intimate  friend  as 
well  as  a  first  cousin  of  Constant  Davis,  the  latter  naturally 
saw  as  much  of  him  as  he  could,  and  the  arrival  of  Constant 
Davis's  younger  brother,  Charles  Henry  Davis,  then  a  mid- 
shipman in  our  navy,  on  leave  from  his  ship  lying  at 
Cherbourg,  gave  an  added  charm  to  their  meeting  in  Paris. 


160  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Constant  Davis  took  me  with  him  on  his  first  expedition  to 
the  Rive  Gauche;  then  an  arrangement  was  made  for  me 
to  take  French  lessons  there  regularly,  and  so  I  used  to  sit 
happily  in  the  shabby  little  room  in  the  Rue  Cujas  and  listen 
to  the  talk,  interspersed  with  much  smoking,  and  ranging 
far  and  wide,  but  chiefly  concerned  with  student  life  in 
Paris,  a  very  fascinating  existence,  as  I  gathered,  and  one 
which  it  seemed  to  me  must  be  very  exciting.  These  boys, 
as  I  should  call  them  now,  were  all  under  twenty-five,  but 
they  appeared  to  me  then  to  be  of  vast  age  and  unlimited 
experience,  and  I  felt  much  pride  at  being  admitted  to  their 
society.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were  exceptionally  clever 
young  men,  and  the  two  Davises,  despite  their  youth,  had 
marked  force  of  character  and  much  seriousness  of  purpose. 
Ben.  Peirce  was  a  man  of  really  brilliant  talent,  but  was  wear- 
ing himself  out  by  a  reckless  disregard  of  health  and  of  all 
the  necessary  limitations  of  human  existence.  He  under- 
stood almost  everything  except  self-control.  He  worked 
very  hard  and  distinguished  himself  in  his  studies;  he  also 
played  very  hard,  and  in  short  burned  the  candle  not  only 
at  both  ends,  but  at  every  other  point  on  its  surface.  Not 
content  with  all  the  amusements  affected  by  the  students  of 
Paris,  he  flung  himself  violently  into  French  politics.  He 
was  one  of  the  drollest  human  beings  I  ever  knew,  as  well  as 
one  of  the  most  hard-working,  and  he  had  a  wild  humor 
which  would  carry  him  into  all  sorts  of  excesses,  and  very 
dangerous  when  applied  to  French  politics,  which  at  that 
particular  time  were  none  of  the  safest.  Haunting  the 
cafes  frequented  by  students,  and  speaking  French  with  the 
utmost  fluency,  although  with  a  strange  accent,  he  became 
a  violent  republican  and  an  ardent  foe  of  the  empire. 

He  was  wont  to  discourse  about  the  infamy  of  the  estab- 
lished government,  half  seriously  and  half  humorously,  but 
with  a  violence  and  an  eloquence  which  used  to  startle  my 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  161 

youthful  mind.  Unfortunately  he  would  not  always  stop 
there.  One  night,  returning  from  dinner  with  his  cousins, 
he  insisted  upon  climbing  up  onto  the  high  fence  of  the 
Tuileries,  and  from  that  point  of  vantage  shouting:  "Vive 
la  Republique!"  "A  bas  1'Empereur!"  "A  bas  Badin- 
guet!"  The  natural  result  was  the  appearance  of  the 
sergents  de  ville  and  his  immediate  arrest.  He  was  rescued 
with  difficulty  by  his  cousins,  who  explained  that  he  was  an 
American,  and  that  he  was  only  joking.  They  also,  I  fear, 
called  the  attention  of  the  police  officers  to  the  effigy  of  the 
Emperor  as  displayed  upon  certain  well-known  coins.  To 
me  Ben.  Peirce  seemed  then,  as  he  does  now  in  memory, 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  beings  I  had  ever  seen.  His 
fun  and  humor  were  unbounded,  but  he  was  equally  inter- 
ested in  serious  matters,  and  if  he  did  not  always  think 
soundly,  he  rarely  failed  in  originality.  He  graduated  at 
the  Polytechnique  with  distinction,  came  home  and  en- 
tered at  once  upon  a  career  which  was  full  of  promise. 
But  the  candle  had  been  burned  too  freely  and  in  too 
many  places.  He  died  young,  leaving  a  sense  of  loss  which 
still  endures  among  all  those  who  knew  him. 

From  Paris  we  went  south  to  Nice,  and  I  well  remember 
the  sensation  of  well-being  which  seemed  to  permeate  me 
on  again  getting  into  the  sunshine.  The  cold,  chilly  weather, 
the  short  days,  the  dim  light  and  prevailing  darkness  of 
Paris,  so  characteristic  of  northern  Europe  in  early  winter, 
had  weighed  on  my  spirits,  as  they  always  have  since,  and 
had  made  me  long  for  the  brilliant  sun  and  clear  air  of  my 
native  land.  So  the  memory  of  my  first  sight  of  the  Riviera 
dwells  brightly  in  my  mind,  and  was  much  enhanced  sub- 
sequently by  our  four  days'  drive  along  the  Cornice  road  to 
Genoa,  instead  of  being  flashed  in  and  out  of  tunnels,  as  is 
now  one's  fate  in  the  railroad  train.  From  Genoa  we  jour- 
neyed in  leisurely  fashion  to  Rome,  where  we  passed  most  of 


162  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  winter,  and  a  very  delightful  winter  it  was.  I  saw  all 
the  sights  and  enjoyed  them;  for  the  first  time  I  seemed 
to  understand  Cicero  and  Horace  and  Virgil,  and  I  grew 
actually  to  like  them  because  I  was  in  the  very  place  where 
they  had  lived,  and  because  Constant  Davis  was  able  to 
make  me  appreciate  what  I  studied.  This  had  never  hap- 
pened before  in  regard  to  lessons,  and  for  this  reason  I 
really  obtained  a  little  education.  The  presence  of  the 
Forum  made  me  comprehend  in  a  curious  way  Milo  and 
Clodius  and  Catiline  and  the  rest,  so  that  I  acquired  an  ad- 
miration for  some  of  the  great  orations  of  which  they  were 
the  theme,  which  I  have  never  lost.  My  early  impressions  of 
the  ruins  and  churches,  of  galleries  and  pictures  and  statues, 
are,  however,  of  no  interest  or  value  to  any  one  but  myself. 
The  memories  which  I  would  record  here  relate  to  very  dif- 
ferent things,  and  have  no  connection  with  sights  or  sight- 
seeing, or  with  lessons  in  the  classics  or  in  ancient  history. 
The  most  interesting  person  whom  I  saw  and  knew  in 
Rome,  for  at  my  age  I  was  naturally  not  much  in  the  way 
of  seeing  distinguished  men,  whether  Italians  or  others,  was 
William  Story,  the  sculptor.  He  was  a  very  intimate,  and 
indeed  a  lifelong,  friend  of  my  mother.  In  fact,  they  had 
been  boy  and  girl  together,  and  this  meeting  after  a  separa- 
tion of  many  years  was  a  very  great  pleasure  and  happiness 
to  both.  The  Storys  had  an  apartment  in  the  Palazzo  Bar- 
berini,  where  their  eldest  son  has  lived  until  very  recently, 
and  we  went  there  many  times,  for  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Story 
were  hospitality  itself,  and  did  everything  in  their  power  to 
make  our  winter  a  pleasant  one.  To  Mr.  Story,  boy  as  I  was, 
I  became  much  attached,  and  I  think  one  could  hardly  fail 
to  have  been  attracted  by  him.  He  was  a  man  of  excep- 
tional charm,  certainly  to  those  who  knew  him  well.  The 
son  of  Joseph  Story,  the  eminent  lawyer,  jurist,  and  justice 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  he  had  been,  as 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  163 

was  to  have  been  expected,  bred  to  the  bar,  and  had  won 
early  distinction  as  the  author  of  more  than  one  successful 
law-book.  But  literature  and  art  were  the  things  he  really 
loved,  and  after  his  father's  death  he  abandoned  his  profes- 
sion, migrated  to  Rome,  and  became  a  sculptor.  He  had  a 
touch  of  the  poet  and  wrote  much  verse,  always  refined 
and  cultivated,  and  some  of  it  very  good,  although  in  his 
more  ambitious  attempts  he  exhibited  too  strongly  the 
masterful  influence  of  Browning,  with  whom  he  was  inti- 
mate. He  was  also  a  graceful  writer  of  prose,  with  abun- 
dance of  wit  and  of  a  pleasant  sentiment  characteristic  of  his 
time.  His  "Roba  di  Roma"  is  one  of  the  best  books  ever 
written  about  the  Rome  of  that  period.  In  sculpture,  which 
was  his  life-work,  he  had  a  large  success,  and  his  statues 
were  much  admired  on  the  Continent  as  well  as  in  England 
and  America.  Like  Gibson  and  Powers  and  Crawford,  like 
Danneker  and  Marochetti,  he  belonged  to  the  school  of 
Canova.  His  work  and  theirs  was  smooth,  rounded,  aca- 
demic, conventional  in  conception,  given  to  the  heroic  and 
the  sentimental.  It  suited  the  taste  of  the  day,  and  was 
much  applauded.  It  is  utterly  out  of  fashion  now,  and  is 
regarded  by  the  modern  successors  of  those  men  with  pro- 
found contempt.  The  defects  of  the  Canova  school  are 
obvious  enough;  its  lack  of  force,  its  artificiality,  its  essen- 
tial weakness,  and  its  sacrifice  of  other  qualities  to  grace 
are  readily  detected,  and  yet  I  think  it  is  a  mistake,  in  the 
violence  of  reaction,  to  deny  to  this  work  all  merit.  My 
mother  bought  one  of  Mr.  Story's  statues,  "The  Libyan 
Sibyl,"  the  best  one,  I  think,  that  he  ever  made.  I  have  it 
now.  It  is  quite  out  of  fashion ;  but  after  making  all  allow- 
ance for  the  influence  of  habit  and  association,  I  still  find  it 
possessed  of  dignity  and  repose,  and  very  pleasant  to  look 
upon.  It  has  a  certain  quiet  beauty  and  grace,  which  are 
sympathetic,  as  well  as  a  sentiment  and  a  feeling  which  are 


164  EARLY  MEMORIES 

too  obvious,  perhaps,  but  which,  none  the  less,  fall  gently  on 
one's  mind  and  are  very  agreeable  to  live  with. 

Mr.  Story,  as  this  mere  enumeration  of  his  pursuits 
shows,  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  versatility  of  talent,  even 
if  he  fell  short  of  supreme  excellence  in  any  of  the  great 
paths  of  effort  upon  which  he  entered.  But  if  he  never 
touched  the  heights  as  poet  or  artist,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
delightful  and  most  attractive  men  that  it  has  ever  been 
my  good  fortune  to  know.  Nothing  human  was  alien  from 
him.  Literature,  art,  law,  society,  all  interested  him,  and 
on  all  he  had  strong  opinions,  and  would  talk  with  fervor  or 
with  laughter,  lightly,  seriously,  or  eloquently,  as  the  case 
might  be.  One  of  his  most  intense  enthusiasms  was  for 
Italy  and  the  Italians,  to  whom  he  thought  we  foreigners  of 
northern  race  were  habitually  unjust.  I  remember  well  his 
telling  me  a  story  which  used  to  rouse  his  indignation  even 
more  than  his  amusement,  and  which  is  as  characteristic  of 
the  occasional  English  grace  of  thought  and  manner  as  any  I 
ever  heard.  He  said  that  he  was  one  day  coming  down  the 
steps  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  with  an  English  friend.  Around 
the  fountain  at  the  foot  were  gathered,  as  usual,  a  number  of 
peasants  in  the  costume  of  the  country,  waiting  to  be  hired 
as  models  by  artists.  The  Englishman  stopped  and  point- 
ing at  them  said:  "I  say,  Story,  just  look  at  those  damn 
foreigners."  The  fact  that  these  innocent  peasants,  for 
such  they  were  in  those  days,  were  in  their  own  country  had 
no  effect  upon  the  solid  English  mind.  They  did  not  dress 
as  people  did  in  London,  they  were  not  English,  and  there- 
fore, wherever  found,  they  were  "damn  foreigners." 

In  conversation  Story  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  men 
I  have  ever  known,  and  although  I  think  the  tears  lay  very 
near  the  laughter  I  have  never  seen  any  one  with  a  greater 
fund  of  humor,  or  who  bubbled  over  so  constantly  with  fun 
and  nonsense,  to  which  he  was,  happily,  much  addicted.  I 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  165 

was,  fortunately,  destined  to  see  more  of  him  in  the  coming 
rears,  both  in  Rome  and  at  my  own  house  at  Nahant,  but 
bhe  earliest  impressions  of  that  vivid,  sympathetic  nature, 
>f  that  quick  and  versatile  mind  which  so  dazzled  me  during 
first  Roman  winter,  have  never  been  effaced. 
Perhaps  I  may  be  permitted  to  follow  the  suggestion  of 
the  last  sentence  and  diverge  at  this  point  in  order  to  give 
>me  further  recollections  of  William  Story  in  later  years. 
Hearing  that  he  was  coming  to  America  in  the  summer  of 
1877,  I  wrote  at  once  asking  him  to  stay  with  me.  I  give 
his  reply  because  it  shows  his  warm  feeling  for  his  old 
friends,  and  so  pleasantly  pictures  Nahant  as  it  was  in  the 
days  of  his  youth. 


MY   DEAR   LODGE — 

I  have  just  received  your  very  kind  letter  inviting  me  to  stay 
with  you  at  Nahant  and  I  let  not  an  hour  pass  before  thanking 
you.  Yes,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  to  you  if  you  can  take 
Waldo  and  me  into  your  charming  house.  In  fact  nothing  would 
give  me  greater  pleasure  and  I  don't  know  that  I  should  not  have 
insisted  on  coming  if  you  had  not  asked  me.  If,  oh,  if  I  could 
only  bring  back  those  old  romantic  days  and  evenings  on  the 
verandah  (I  beg  pardon  piazza) !  But  I  shall  meet  the  ghosts  of 
the  past  there  and  I  shall  pretend  your  wife  is  her  own  mother 
and  flirt  frightfully  with  her  if  she  will  let  me.  How  many  times 
my  thoughts  go  back  to  Nahant  with  a  yearning  to  see  it  again. 
I  shall  see  your  mother  too  again,  who  is  to  me  in  my  memory  a 
part  of  Nahant,  and  who  I  hope  keeps  me  still  in  her  heart  as  I 
do  her  in  mine. 

I  heard  with  deep  regret  of  the  death  of  Admiral  Davis.  He 
was  a  very  old  friend  of  mine,  always  cordial  and  kind  and  sym- 
pathetic and  I  always  hoped  to  see  him  again  with  all  his  honors 
about  him.  I  see  him  still  and  hear  his  voice  as  in  the  old  days  in 
Cambridge. 

Motley  too  is  gone  and  that  was  a  pang  to  me.  He  and  his 
wife  were  also  a  part  of  Nahant  and  I  well  remember  when  I 
was  a  boy,  seeing  them  and  Stackpole  and  his  wife  walking  up 


166  EARLY  MEMORIES 

and  down  the  old  saloon  and  asking  myself  if  there  were  ever  seen 
two  handsomer  couples.  I  shall  miss  him  very  much  with  his 
eager  spirit,  his  warm  sympathies,  his  strenuous  friendships.  The 
links  of  the  golden  chain  break  off  one  after  another  and  this  is 

the  curse  of  growing  old,  or  one  of  the  curses,  for  there  are  many 

With  our  love  to  your  mother  and  wife,  believe  me 
Yours  most  faithfully 

W.  W.  STORY 
ROME,  June  16,  1877 

Two  years  later  I  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Inter- 
national Review,  and  I  wrote  Mr.  Story  asking  him  to  send 
me  something  for  publication.  Here  are  two  of  his  letters 
on  this  subject. 

ROME,  June  5,  1879 

MY  DEAR  CABOT — 

I  am  delighted  to  hear  that  you  have  again  taken  to  editing 
and  that  the  Revieiv  will  be  in  such  good  hands.  For  my  own  part 
I  should  be  most  happy  to  do  anything  I  can  for  you  and  when  I 
can  get  a  week,  if  I  can  succeed  in  this,  I  will  try  to  write  you 
something.  About  what?  That  is  the  question.  Meanwhile 
there  is  a  long  paper  which  would  make  I  am  afraid  at  least  two 
articles,  which  I  wrote  in  Dieppe  last  summer  on  a  subject  which 
is  very  interesting  in  itself  and  which  perhaps  might  meet  your 
wishes.  It  is  an  account  of  the  early  history  of  Dieppe  and  the 
voyages  of  discovery  made  by  her  early  navigators  in  the  East 
and  the  West,  in  search  of  the  Indies  by  sea;  the  first  doubling  of 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  the  probable  first  discovery  before 
Columbus  of  Brazil  by  Jean  Cousin  and  of  the  subsequent  voyages 
numerically  following  to  North  America.  It  opens  a  very  curious 
question  as  to  the  priority  of  discovery  in  both  worlds  and  as  to 
the  claims  of  the  Portuguese,  etc.  The  subject  interested  me 
greatly  and  would  I  think  be  especially  interesting  to  Americans. 
It  is  a  picturesque  bit  of  history  and  if  it  proves  uninteresting  in 
my  hands  it  is  my  fault,  not  the  fault  of  the  subject.  The  only 
other  thing  I  have  ready  is  a  poem  which  I  gave  to  Mr.  Thorndike 
Rice  of  the  North  American  Review.  It  is  a  supposed  letter  from 
a  Jew  who  comes  to  Rome  in  the  reign  of  Sixtus  IV  and  gives  his 


EUROPE:  1866-1867  167 

ideas  as  to  the  Church  and  habits  and  morals  of  the  clergy  and  the 
world  in  Rome.  It  forms  a  pendant  to  that  other  poem  "The 
Roman  Lawyer  in  Jerusalem"  in  which  the  case  of  Judas  is  treated. 
I  do  not  know  whether  you  intend  to  introduce  poems  (it  is  in 
blank  verse)  or  whether  the  subject  would  please  you  but  if  Mr. 
Rice  has  decided  not  to  print  it  I  put  it  at  your  disposal.  His 
only  difficulty  was  its  being  in  verse  but  I  see  in  his  last  number 
that  he  has  printed  a  poem  by  Voltaire  and  perhaps  he  will  insert 
mine. 

If  these  do  not  meet  your  views  I  can  without  much  trouble 
give  you  a  paper  on  the  knowledge  of  casting  and  plaster  among 
the  ancients,  a  subject  which  I  have  carefully  studied  and  which 
opens  a  good  many  questions  relating  to  ancient  art.  What  do 
you  say  to  this? 

I  am  now  busy  on  my  report  on  the  French  Exposition  and  I 
am  afraid  I  am  making  a  book  of  it.  I  have  got  already  to  my 
140th  quarto  page  of  close  writing  and  the  Lord  knows  when  and 
where  I  shall  finish  it.  It  is  a  disagreeable  task,  for  on  the  one  hand 
my  sense  of  duty  urges  me  to  sharp  criticisms,  and  my  unwilling- 
ness to  say  unpleasant  things  on  the  other  hand  draws  me  in  an 
opposite  direction.  Whether  I  praise  or  blame  however  I  shall 
satisfy  no  one  of  the  artists  and  I  am  convinced  that  they  will  be 
equally  offended  whichever  course  I  pursue. 

I  have  just  finished  a  large  statue  of  Sardanapalus  of  which 
perhaps  you  may  see  some  accounts  in  the  papers.     On  the  whole 
I  think  it  is  considered  generally  to  be  at  least  one  of  my  best 
works.    At  all  events  it  is  original  and  like  nothing  else.  .  .  . 
Yours  most  faithfully 

W  W  STORY 


VICHY,  22  July,  1879 

MY  DEAR  CABOT — 

I  have  amused  myself  in  looking  over  my  study  of  the  art  of 
casting  among  the  ancients,  for  it  was  a  study  for  myself  origi- 
nally and  written  with  no  view  of  publication,  but  merely  to  clear 
up  my  own  notions;  and  I  now  send  it  to  you  with  some  correc- 
tions and  alterations.  The  question  is  a  curious  one  and  I  have 
gone  into  it  very  elaborately.  I  think  I  have  not  left  a  leg  for 
C.  C.  P.  to  stand  upon.  He  wilfully  misunderstood  the  whole 


168  EARLY  MEMORIES 

matter.  I  think  I  first  set  him  going  on  it  and  endeavored  to  my 
utmost  to  clear  up  his  mind  but  he  could  not  be  made  to  see  it. 
He  wrote  to  me  his  authorities  and  I  explained  them  to  him,  but 
a  wilfu  man  maun  hae  his  way — and  he  had  his — and  years  after 
he  published  his  pamphlet  which  is  in  my  view  wholly  wrong  and 
begs  the  whole  question  at  every  page.  The  question  is  archse- 
ologically  an  interesting  one  and  has  never  properly  been  consid- 
ered before.  Indeed  the  fact  of  the  knowledge  of  casting  by  the 
ancients  has  been  always  taken  as  a  fact  and  never  carefully  ex- 
amined. Just  as  the  Elgin  marbles  were  always  attributed  by 
modern  writers  to  Phidias,  until  I  exploded  that  belief  in  an  article 
in  Blackwood.  Since  then  I  believe  it  has  never  been  repeated. 
...  I  think  of  you  all  at  Nahant  breathing  the  cool  sea  air  and 
overlooking  scenes  that  to  me  are  full  of  romance  and  embued 
with  the  warm  colors  of  youth  and  feeling,  while  I  am  here  in 
France  at  Vichy  drinking  the  waters  and  reading  and  writing; 
and  hoping  that  my  wife  at  least  will  get  a  real  benefit  from  the 
place;  but  getting  little  enjoyment  from  it  myself.  The  people 
are  so  ugly  that  they  oppress  me,  and  all  sorts  of  maladies  walk 
about  personified.  I  wonder  if  there  are  any  pretty  girls  anywhere. 
I  am  sure  there  are  none  here.  So  I  read  bad  and  clever  French 
novels  about  creatures  so  exquisite,  both  male  and  female,  that 
one  is  ready  to  commit  any  baseness  for  them  and  then  I  ask  my- 
self where  these  creatures  are.  I  see  none  at  Vichy. 

Ever  yours  most  faithfully 

W  W  STORY 

These  letters  show  better  than  any  words  of  description 
his  versatility,  the  wide  range  of  his  interests,  and  also  his 
industry  and  enormous  power  of  work. 

Some  eight  years  afterward  I  was  at  work  on  my  "Life 
of  Washington."  I  had  talked  much  with  Mr.  Story  about 
it  because  he  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  subject,  and  had 
heard  from  his  father,  who  was  not  only  for  more  than  twenty 
years  the  associate  but  the  close  friend  of  Chief  Justice 
Marshall,  many  anecdotes  of  Washington  not  then  gen- 
erally known.  His  reply  to  my  letter  seems  to  me  to  have 
much  historical  interest. 


EUROPE:   1866-1867  169 

ROME,  PALAZZO  BARBERINI 
March  15,  1887 

MY  DEAR  LODGE — 

I  am  delighted  to  hear  that  you  are  going  to  give  us  the  por- 
trait of  Washington  after  life,  and  not  a  wooden  figure  after  the 
dignity  of  history  as  it  is  called;  Marshall's  and  Sparks's  heroes 
are  about  as  much  like  the  real  man  as  the  figure  in  front  of  the 
tobacco  shops  is  like  a  North  American  Indian.  If  Marshall  had 
had  a  drop  of  Zola's  blood  in  him  and  had  dared  to  be  true  to  life 
what  a  story  he  might  have  told  that  now  is  lost  forever. 

The  story  that  you  refer  to  was  told  me  at  Washington  in  the 
year  1844  I  think.  I  was  then  recovering  from  a  severe  typhoid 
fever  and  went  to  Washington  with  my  father.  I  stayed  for  about 
six  weeks.  In  the  house  where  we  boarded  there  were  several 
members  of  the  Supreme  Court  and  two  or  three  Senators — all 
distinguished  men,  some  of  whom  had  personal  reminiscences  of 
Washington.  There  was  a  common  sitting  room  in  which  all 
used  to  meet  every  evening  and  talk  about  every  sort  of  thing  and 
eminently  interesting  those  evenings  were.  I  only  wish  I  had  re- 
corded at  the  time  on  paper  the  stories  that  were  then  told  of  the 
Revolution  and  the  persons  who  figured  in  it,  instead  of  trusting 
it  to  my  sin  of  a  memory.  Still  many  of  those  stories  remain 
vividly  in  my  mind,  for  they  made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  and 
among  the  most  vivid  were  several  relating  to  Washington  and 
his  person  and  bearing  and  character.  Among  them  was  the  one 
to  which  you  refer.  I  do  not  remember  by  whom  it  was  told,  but 
my  impression  is  that  it  was  related  by  Richard  Peters,  then  the 
reporter  of  the  Supreme  Court,  though  it  may  have  been  by  my 
father,  for  various  stories  were  told  on  that  same  evening  and  my 
memory  is  not  quite  distinct  on  this  point.  At  all  events  it  was 
told  as  coming  directly  from  Marshall  and  was  to  this  effect. 

It  was  at  one  of  the  most  anxious  periods  of  the  War  and  if 
my  memory  serves  me  right  immediately  after  the  Battle  of  the 
Brandy  Wine  when  there  was  great  doubt  as  to  the  exact  position 
and  movement  of  the  British.  Washington  called  a  meeting  of  all 
the  officers  to  discuss  the  situation  and  determine  the  best  course 
to  pursue.  The  consultation  took  place  in  Washington's  tent. 
The  night  was  very  stormy  and  wild.  Different  views  were  taken 
by  the  officers  and  it  became  exceedingly  important  to  know  the 
exact  position  of  the  British  across  the  river.  Washington  accord- 


170  EARLY  MEMORIES 

ingly  sent  for  an  officer  and  directed  him  at  once  to  cross  the  river 
and  endeavor  to  discover  where  the  British  forces  were  and 
whether  they  were  in  movement  and  in  what  direction.  The 
officer  received  his  orders  and  departed  and  Washington  and  his 
officers  remained  together  in  the  tent  awaiting  his  report.  Hours 
passed  by  of  impatience  and  anxiety.  At  last  he  returned.  Wash- 
ington was  sitting  at  a  little  table  on  which  were  writing  materials 
and  a  large  heavy  leaden  inkstand.  "Well/5  he  said,  as  the  officer 
returned,  "what  is  your  report?"  The  officer  in  answer  and  with 
some  hesitation  replied  that  he  regretted  to  say  that  he  had  found 
it  impossible  to  cross  the  river  on  account  of  the  severeness  of  the 
storm,  the  violence  of  the  wind  and  rain,  and  the  swollen  condi- 
tion of  the  river;  that  he  had  done  his  best  but  had  found  it 
impossible.  Washington  at  this  report  glared  at  him  an  instant 
and  then  seizing  the  great  leaden  inkstand  launched  it  at  his  head 
exclaiming  "  God  damn  your  soul  to  Hell,  be  off  with  you  and  send 
me  a  man'1  The  officer  vanished.  He  had  had  enough.  In  an 
hour  or  two  he  returned  and  gave  his  report.  Washington  had 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  cross  the  river  and  he  was  able  to  state 
the  position  of  the  enemy. 

Those,  I  think,  were  the  exact  words  Washington  used.  They 
remain  fixed  and  clear  in  my  memory.  They  made  Washing- 
ton to  me  a  more  real  and  distinct  person,  and  accounted  for 
his  personal  power  and  absoluteness  of  character  more  than  all 
the  dignified  narratives  of  the  buckram  historians.  I  remember 
too  that  it  was  agreed  by  all  who  were  present,  when  this  story 
was  told,  that  Washington  could  and  did  swear  roundly  and 
strongly  on  occasions,  and  that  when  he  met  Lee  in  his  retreat 
from  Monmouth  he  swore  at  him  with  a  vengeance  and  applied 
to  him  the  most  opprobrious  epithets  of  unmeasured  character 
and  vehemence. 

I  remember  too  that  it  was  then  said  that  not  only  he  gave 
way  at  time  to  furious  bursts  of  violence,  though  he  was  ordinarily 
stiff  and  stern  and  undemonstrative,  but  that  he  equally  on  occa- 
sions gave  way  to  uncontrollable  fits  of  laughter  and  a  story  told 
by  Marshall  in  illustration  of  this  was  then  related  which  hap- 
pened in  the  presence  of  Marshall,  when  Washington  was  so  over- 
come by  his  laughter  that  he  actually  fell  to  the  floor.  The  story 
is  too  long  to  tell  here  but  it  is  a  very  ludicrous  one.  The  out- 
lines of  the  story  are  simply  these.  (I  had  better  perhaps  shortly 


EUROPE  :  1866-1867  171 

relate  them  as  they  may  interest  you).  Washington  and  Marshall 
had  gone  down  into  the  country  to  visit  a  family  of  friends.  They 
were  alone  and  on  horseback.  The  ride  was  a  long  one  and  night 
had  come  on.  As  they  were  approaching  the  house,  Marshall  by 
a  sudden  movement  on  his  horse,  perhaps  to  avoid  a  tree  or  other 
obstacle,  split  his  breeches.  What  was  to  be  done?  It  was  too 
late  and  the  distance  was  too  long  for  him  to  return  and  he  was  in 
an  unpresentable  condition.  How  to  make  his  appearance  before 
the  ladies  of  the  family  was  a  question.  Washington  insisted  on 
his  going  on,  insisted  so  strongly  that  he  was  forced  to  comply 
and  on  they  went.  The  only  device  to  conceal  his  disastrous  con- 
dition that  occurred  to  Marshall  was  to  open  his  handkerchief 
and  hold  it  by  the  two  ends  before  him  like  an  apron  and  this  he 
did.  On  entering  the  room  Washington  turned  and  looked  at 
him  and  then  suddenly  broke  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter 
which  was  so  violent  and  exhausting  that  it  was  said  he  actually 
rolled  on  the  floor  and  could  not  for  a  time  recover  himself. 

I  have  filled  up  my  two  sheets  and  I  must  break  off  and  go  to 
my  work.  Give  my  love  and  my  wife's  to  your  wife  and  mother. 
I  send  you  all  a  warm  embrace  and  am 

Ever  yours  faithfully 

W  W  STORY 


At  the  Story  house  in  1866-7  we  met  many  interest- 
ing people,  at  least  my  elders  and  betters  did,  for  I  merely 
looked  on  unobtrusively  from  a  corner,  and  felt  much  out 
of  place  at  a  dinner  or  evening  reception  designed  for  the 
entertainment  of  " grown-up"  persons.  I  recall  Miss  Har- 
riet Hosmer,  the  sculptress,  who  was  constantly  at  the  Pa- 
lazzo Barberini.  I  think  she  impressed  me  chiefly  because 
she  wore  her  hair  short,  but  she  was  a  bright,  lively  woman 
whose  statues  had  just  at  that  time  a  fleeting  popularity. 
I  also  remember  seeing  Mr.  Frederick  Locker,  as  he  was 
then,  with  his  first  wife,  Lady  Charlotte  Bruce,  and  I  was 
much  puzzled  to  know  why  she  was  never  referred  to  as 
Mrs.  Locker.  The  Duke  of  Argyll  I  remember  very  well, 
chiefly,  I  suppose,  because  I  had  never  seen  a  duke  before, 


172  EARLY  MEMORIES 

and  had  a  vague  idea  that  persons  with  that  lofty  title  ought 
to  look  very  differently  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  The 
Duke  of  Argyll  certainly  did  not  look  like  everybody  else,  and 
he  comes  back  to  me  as  the  centre  of  a  group  to  whom  he  was 
talking  with  great  animation.  He  had  very  light-red  hair; 
which  seemed  to  be  flaring  up  from  his  head;  and  I  remem- 
ber Mr.  Story  saying  very  disrespectfully  that  he  looked 
like  a  lucifer  match  just  ignited. 

Very  far  removed  from  the  art  and  literature  to  which 
William  Story  gave  his  life,  from  the  people  or  from  the  an- 
tiquities and  galleries  of  Rome,  was  the  occupation  which 
constituted  my  chief  pleasure  in  that  winter  of  1866-7. 
Always  fond  of  riding,  my  sister  and  I  promptly  provided 
ourselves  with  horses,  so  that  we  might  enjoy  the  Campagna 
in  that  way.  One  of  our  first  rides  was  on  a  beautiful  morn- 
ing to  see  the  meet  of  the  foxhounds  which  was  to  take  place 
at  the  Tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella.  Every  one  knows  that 
wonderful  spot — the  great  tomb,  the  Appian  Way  at  its  foot, 
the  Aqueduct  striding  across  the  plain,  and  in  the  distance 
the  lovely  outline  of  the  Alban  hills.  Young,  careless,  and 
absorbed  in  sport  as  I  was,  that  beautiful  scene  made  a 
profound  impression  upon  me,  one  that  has  deepened  since 
with  every  return  to  Rome.  I  could  not  then  put  my  feel- 
ings into  words,  but  some  years  afterwards  I  found  them 
expressed  when  I  read  "Two  in  the  Campagna.": 

"The  Champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease." 

But  on  that  particular  morning  there  were  no  ghosts  visible, 
for  I  had  no  eyes  for  anything  but  the  hounds,  the  horses, 
and  the  scarlet  coats  of  which  I  had  often  dreamed,  and 


EUROPE  :   1866-1867  173 

which  I  now  regarded  with  feverish  intensity.  Suddenly  a 
hound  gave  tongue,  then  another  joined  in,  and  another, 
and  then  the  whole  pack.  They  were  off,  and  without  stop- 
ping to  think  I  began  to  ride  after  them,  following  the  evi- 
dent impulse  of  my  horse.  I  happened  to  be  riding  near 
General  Philip  Schuyler,  of  New  York,  who  was  not  only 
one  of  the  pleasantest  and  most  kindly  of  men,  as  well  as 
a  distinguished  officer  of  our  Civil  War,  but  who  was  also, 
through  his  mother,  a  granddaughter  of  Alexander  Hamil- 
ton, the  representative  of  a  family  friendship  with  my  own 
people  which  has  lasted  for  four  generations.  "  Come  along," 
he  said.  "I  don't  know  whether  my  horse  will  jump,"  I 
replied.  "I  think  I  know  that  horse,"  said  General  Schuy- 
ler, "  and  have  seen  him  out  before.  He  will  go,  I  am  sure." 
His  memory  was  correct.  I  had  obtained,  as  it  appeared, 
from  the  English  dealer,  who  owned  him,  a  well-bred,  fast 
little  horse  named  Fidget,  which  had  been  regularly  hunted 
during  the  previous  year.  He  was  a  capital  horse,  as  I  after- 
wards discovered,  well  up  to  my  weight,  and  ready  to  go 
anywhere  or  jump  anything;  rather  uneasy  if  checked,  but 
perfect  to  go.  My  companion's  suggestion,  however,  was 
quite  sufficient  for  me.  I  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
follow  the  hounds,  and  was  entirely  ready  to  take  my 
chances.  So  off  we  went.  My  horse,  I  soon  found,  knew 
his  business,  and  after  we  had  crossed  the  first  stone  wall 
no  doubt  as  to  his  jumping  power  again  entered  my  mind, 
for  at  sixteen  I  had  no  nerves,  a  possession  of  which  I 
became  painfully  conscious  forty  years  later,  after  having 
ridden  many  horses  and  jumped  countless  fences — one  of  the 
penalties  of  age.  Nothing,  I  think,  ever  quite  equals  a 
first  day  with  the  hounds  if  one  is  born  with  a  love  of  horses 
and  riding.  There  have  been  many,  many  such  days  since 
in  my  life,  glorious  at  the  moment,  delightful  in  retrospect, 
but  none  ever  quite  gave  me  the  sensation  of  that  first  ex- 


174  EARLY  MEMORIES 

perience  on  the  Roman  Campagna.  I  finished  with  the 
first  flight  and  went  home  with  my  head  in  the  clouds.  To 
ride  a  good  horse  across  country  after  hounds  seemed  to  me 
the  finest  thing  that  a  man  could  do.  One  does  not  think  of 
falls  at  that  age,  and  I  had  been  lucky,  so  that  accidents  did 
not  enter  into  my  vision  at  all.  As  long  as  we  remained  in 
Rome  I  hunted  regularly,  and  went  out  whenever  the  hounds 
met. 

Apart  from  the  joys  and  excitement  of  riding  across 
country  I  found  other  interests  in  hunting.  I  came  to  know 
the  country  with  a  thoroughness  obtainable  in  no  other  way, 
and  I  made  some  pleasant  acquaintances.  The  master  was 
a  nobleman  of  one  of  the  great  Roman  houses.  I  do  not 
recall  his  name,  but  I  remember  him  well:  a  tall,  handsome 
man,  superbly  mounted  on  a  big  black  horse.  I  looked  at 
him  with  admiring  eyes  from  a  distance,  but  I  made  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  the  huntsmen  and  the  whips,  who 
were  all  Englishmen.  My  chief  friend,  however,  was  the 
man  from  whom  I  hired  my  horse,  who  was  also  an  English- 
man. He  kept  a  stable  of  hunters  which  he  rented  and  sold. 
He  also  went  out  with  some  of  his  patrons  and  had  an  eye 
upon  them  in  the  field,  and  he  helped  the  whips  with  the 
hounds.  He  was  a  middle-aged  man,  tall,  slender,  always 
dressed  in  black,  and  one  of  the  best  riders  I  ever  met.  I 
saw  him  one  day  perform  a  really  remarkable  feat  of  riding, 
one  which  required  an  unusual  amount  of  nerve  and  judg- 
ment. There  was  a  young  Austrian  countess  accompanied 
by  her  husband,  who  rode  regularly  with  us.  She  was  very 
handsome,  and  a  good  but  a  wild  and  reckless  rider.  One 
day  when  we  were  going  very  fast  we  came  suddenly  upon 
a  lonely  farmhouse  with  a  very  small  paddock  or  yard  ad- 
joining it.  The  hounds  broke  at  the  farmyard,  and  for  a 
moment  the  line  was  not  clear.  We  all  checked  except  the 
countess,  who  for  some  unexplained  reason,  perhaps  from 


EUROPE:  1866-1867  175 

a  failure  to  control  her  horse;  rode  straight  at  the  paddock 
fence,  which  was  at  least  five  feet  high,  and  of  stiff  rails. 
Her  horse  struck  and  came  down,  and  she  was  caught  under 
him  by  her  long  skirt,  such  as  was  worn  in  those  days.  The 
danger  that  the  horse  would  roll  over  her  was  imminent  and 
pressing.  There  was  no  time  to  lose,  but  to  jump  into  the 
paddock  and  at  the  same  time  in  that  contracted  space  to 
avoid  the  fallen  horse  was  a  desperate  chance.  My  friend 
in  black,  however,  in  much  less  time  than  it  takes  me  to 
tell  it,  jumped  his  horse  over  the  five  feet  of  rails,  landed 
him  at  a  standstill  just  clear  of  the  countess,  was  off,  and  had 
her  dragged  clear  of  her  struggling  horse  and  on  her  feet 
before  the  rest  of  us  realized  what  had  happened.  The 
countess  escaped  with  a  broken  arm,  I  believe,  but  I  have 
rarely  seen  more  nerve  and  skill  shown  in  taking  a  big 
jump  than  was  displayed  by  the  owner  of  my  little  horse 
on  that  occasion. 

The  most  interesting  person,  however,  whom  I  met  in  the 
hunting-field  that  winter  was  Miss  Charlotte  Cushman,  the 
actress.  She  was  out  every  day  with  her  nephew  and  his 
wife,  all  mounted  on  some  very  fine  hunters  which  Miss 
Cushman  had  imported  from  Ireland.  She  was  a  very 
large,  heavy  woman,  over  fifty  years  of  age  then,  and  she 
rode  carefully,  but  she  also  rode  well  and  intelligently,  and 
as  she  was  perfectly  mounted,  kept  up  and  saw  all  that  was 
going  on.  One  day  when  chance  brought  us  side  by  side 
she  spoke  to  me,  and  finding  out  who  I  was  she  at  once 
showed  kind  and  sympathetic  interest,  and  we  became  great 
friends.  We  used  to  talk  about  things  American  and  about 
horses  and  hunting,  in  regard  to  which  she  gave  me  many 
shrewd  hints.  She  was  a  very  intelligent  and  very  agreeable 
woman  as  well  as  a  fine  actress.  The  fact  that  she  had  been 
on  the  stage  made  her  especially  interesting  to  me,  with  my 
love  of  the  theatre,  and  I  regarded  her  with  admiration  and 


176  EARLY  MEMORIES 

extreme  curiosity.  But  I  never  could  muster  up  the  courage 
to  speak  to  her  of  her  profession  or  of  the  stage  or  of  acting. 
I  had  seen  her  act  more  than  once,  and  had  been  greatly 
impressed  by  her  power,  all  the  more  remarkable  because  it 
was  by  her  art  and  her  fine  voice  alone  that  she  overcame 
her  lack  of  beauty,  which  was  very  marked.  Her  greatest 
part  was  Meg  Merrilies,  where  looks  did  not  matter,  but 
that  which  I  remember  best  was  her  acting  in  Lady  Macbeth, 
which  is,  I  think,  the  greatest  and  most  difficult  woman's 
part  in  the  whole  range  of  tragedy.  I  have  seen  many 
actresses  fail  in  it;  I  have  never  seen  any  one  approach  suc- 
cess except  Miss  Cushman.  She  was  an  elderly  woman 
when  I  saw  her,  large,  stout,  gray-haired,  and  plain,  while 
Lady  Macbeth  is  obviously  still  young  and  beautiful.  Yet 
Miss  Cushman  made  one  forget  everything  except  the  great- 
ness of  the  part.  She  moved  and  stirred  her  audience,  and 
I  never  shall  forget  the  power  of  the  sleep-walking  scene,  the 
reserve  with  which  she  played  it,  and  the  shuddering  horror 
she  conveyed.  It  stands  out  in  my  recollection  as  one  of 
the  few  really  great  bits  of  acting  which  are  met  with  in  a 
lifetime. 

The  last  time  I  recall  her  in  Rome  was  one  day  when  we 
had  a  fine  run  in  the  neighborhood  of  Monte  Mario.  It  was 
a  damp  day,  the  ground  very  wet  and  slippery,  and  we  had  to 
go  down  into  and  up  again  out  of  a  number  of  deep  ravines, 
or  gulches,  as  they  would  be  called  in  the  West.  The  scent 
lay  strong,  we  were  having  a  good  day,  and  these  descents 
and  ascents  were  trying  and  risky.  Miss  Cushman  kept 
warning  me  to  be  careful,  and  finally,  when  we  came  to  an 
unusually  steep  slope,  she  called  out  that  if  I  kept  on  as  I 
was  going  I  should  either  break  my  neck  or  lame  my  horse. 
But  I  was  sixteen;  I  saw  the  hounds  scrambling  up  the  other 
side  and  then  running  straight  with  their  heads  up,  and  so 
down  I  went  as  fast  as  I  could,  my  horse  sliding  almost  on 


EUROPE  :  1866-1867  177 

his  haunches.  But  he  did  not  fall,  and  when  I  reached  the 
top  of  the  gully  opposite  we  were  in  a  level  country,  the  pack 
going  as  fast  as  they  could,  and  one  of  the  finest  runs  I  ever 
had  was  the  result.  The  fox  finally  got  away  and  went  to 
earth,  but  there  were  few  left  to  see  even  that  ending,  and 
I  was  filled  with  glory  and  satisfaction.  Here  is  the  dry 
contemporary  account  from  my  diary: 

"Hunt  today.  Meet  at  Monte  Mario.  Beautiful  day. 
View  very  fine.  First  rate  run,  fox  went  to  earth  and  did 
not  kill.  Best  run  I  have  had;  the  country  was  very  slip- 
pery and  there  were  lots  of  falls.  Some  of  the  views  I  had 
of  the  city  were  splendid.  I  rode  home  with  a  young  Eng- 
lish man  who  was  very  pleasant  and  told  me  about  English 
hunting." 

I  recall  the  young  Englishman  well.  He  was  very  pleas- 
ant, but  he  brought  my  pride  in  my  performances  down 
with  a  hard  thud  by  asking  me  if  I  had  ever  hunted  in  the 
Lincolnshire  wolds.  I  knew  where  Lincolnshire  was,  but 
had  very  vague  ideas  as  to  the  nature  of  a  wold.  I  replied 
in  the  negative,  without  adding  that  I  had  never  hunted 
anywhere  except  in  Rome,  and  he  then  said  kindly,  but  with 
the  condescension  described  by  Lowell,  "Ah,  you  should 
see  the  hunting  there  if  you  want  to  know  what  really  good 
hunting  is,"  and  I  felt  properly  humbled. 

Much  harder  to  bear  was  the  way  in  which  Miss  Gush- 
man's  prophecy  came  true.  I  find  in  the  diary:  "horse 
dead  lame.  Could  not  hunt."  "Horse  still  lame — could 
not  hunt."  My  rashness  abbreviated  my  hunting  sadly, 
but  it  was  none  the  less  a  glorious  day,  that  day  at  Monte 
Mario,  and  I  think  it  was  worth  all  it  cost. 

From  Rome  we  went  to  Naples,  then  back  to  Rome,  and 
so  north  to  Venice.  Venice  had  just  been  liberated  from 
Austria  and  become  part  of  Italy,  and  her  people  were  cele- 
brating the  carnival,  as  may  be  supposed,  with  extraordinary 
gusto  and  brilliancy.  Prince  Amadeo,  afterwards  King  of 


178  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Spain,  was  there  to  give  emphasis  to  the  occasion,  and  I 
saw  him  several  times.  He  was  very  popular,  and  at  such 
a  moment  was  received  with  intense  enthusiasm.  We  saw, 
of  course,  all  the  usual  sights,  but  that  which  was  unusual 
and  which  interested  me  most  was  the  Piazza,  especially  at 
night,  filled,  as  it  was,  with  maskers,  with  people  in  all  sorts 
of  fancy  dresses,  brilliantly  illuminated  and  loud  with  music, 
noise,  and  fun  of  all  kinds. 

From  Venice  we  went  to  Vienna,  and  passed  at  once  into 
a  winter  like  that  at  home.  At  Vienna  we  found  the  Mot- 
leys, for  Mr.  Motley  was  our  minister  there,  and  they  were, 
as  ever,  all  that  was  most  kind,  hospitable,  and  delightful. 
We  dined  with  them  several  times  during  our  short  stay, 
heard  a  great  deal  that  was  interesting  about  Vienna  and 
about  the  Austrian  aristocracy,  with  their  absurd  sixteen 
quarterings  and  their  profound  belief  that  they  were  still 
real  and  important. 

After  Vienna  came  Prague  and  Dresden,  then  back  to 
Paris  and  London,  and  thence  home.  I  was  so  glad  to  be 
once  more  at  home  that  even  the  East  Boston  wharf  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning  looked  charming,  and  my  return  to  Mr. 
DixwelTs  ministrations  for  three  weeks  seemed  actually  de- 
lightful. But  the  few  weeks  were  soon  over,  and  in  July  I 
went  out  to  Cambridge  and  was  duly  examined  for  admission 
to  Harvard.  At  that  time  the  examinations  were  largely 
oral,  lasting  three  days,  and  one's  fate  was  announced  on 
Saturday  afternoon  almost  immediately  after  the  ordeal  had 
ended.  I  got  in  without  conditions,  as  did  most  of  my 
friends  at  Mr.  DixwelTs,  and  to  have  no  conditions  was  the 
best  that  could  be  done  then,  when  entrance  honors  were  not 
conferred.  Filled  with  triumph,  I  rushed  into  town,  took 
the  train,  and  drove  rapidly  home  from  Lynn  to  Nahant. 
The  long  summer  twilight  was  just  dying  as  I  reached  the 
house,  and  I  saw  the  family  gathered  on  the  steps  when  I 
jumped  out  of  the  carriage.  From  the  shadow  came  my 


EUROPE  :   1866-1867  179 

mother's  voice,  anxiously  asking,  "What  news?"  to  which, 
filled  with  mischief,  I  replied:  "Four  conditions."  I  can 
hear  still  my  good  mother's  cry  of  disappointment,  and  the 
silence  that  fell  upon  the  group  could  be  felt.  Then  came 
the  voice  of  Wendell  Holmes,  as  he  caught  sight  of  my  face: 
"The  little  villain!  He  is  in  without  conditions."  Much 
rejoicing  followed.  It  was  neither  a  very  magnificent  nor 
a  very  unusual  achievement,  but  it  was  a  large  victory  for 
me,  and  the  night  upon  which  I  announced  it  is  one  which 
I  remember  as  a  very  happy  and  satisfying  occasion. 

In  any  event,  I  was  thought  by  my  partial  family  to 
have  rewarded  their  pains  in  a  measure  at  least,  and  I  was 
allowed  to  do  what  I  pleased  with  my  summer.  So  I  elected 
to  go  with  my  cousin  Frank  Hubbard  to  Canada,  salmon- 
fishing.  We  went  to  Montreal,  and  thence  to  Quebec,  one 
of  the  towns  best  worth  seeing  in  the  world,  for  there  are 
very  few  so  nobly  placed  and  at  once  so  picturesque  and  so 
full  of  a  sense  of  strength.  From  Quebec  we  went  down  the 
St.  Lawrence  to  the  Saguenay,  and  thence  to  the  Bersimis, 
where  we  camped  out  and  enjoyed  ourselves  for  that  reason 
alone,  although  we  had  no  luck  at  fishing.  It  was,  I  think, 
rather  late  in  the  season,  and  so  we  went  back  to  Quebec 
and  thence  to  Lake  Champlain,  and  on  into  the  Adirondacks, 
which  were  then  a  real  wilderness.  We  camped  out  and  did 
some  shooting  and  fishing.  I  was  guilty  of  shooting  a  buck 
in  the  water,  a  first  and  solitary  offence  of  the  kind,  which 
I  hope  may  be  forgiven;  we  also  did  some  fishing  with  better 
success  than  in  Canada,  and  enjoyed  greatly  going  down  the 
rivers  and  shooting  the  rapids  in  our  big  canoe. 

But  everything  comes  to  an  end,  nothing  so  certainly  or 
so  rapidly  as  a  boy's  holidays,  and  September  found  me  in 
Cambridge,  a  wretched  freshman,  facing  "Bloody  Monday" 
as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  and  so  beginning  my  college  Hie. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
HARVARD:  1867-1871 

IF  my  career  at  Harvard  was  singularly  devoid  of  either 
distinction  or  interest;  it  at  least  came  at  a  very  memorable 
period  in  the  life  of  the  college.  I  went  in  under  the  old 
system  and  came  out  under  the  new.  I  entered  the  college, 
which  had  remained  in  essence  unchanged  from  the  days  of 
its  Puritan  founders,  the  college  of  the  eighteenth  century 
with  its  "  Gratulatios "  and  odes  and  elegies  in  proper  Latin 
verse  when  a  sovereign  died  or  came  to  the  throne,  the  col- 
lege with  the  narrow  classical  curriculum  of  its  English  exem- 
plars, and  I  came  out  a  graduate  of  the  modern  university. 
Doctor  Thomas  Hill  was  president  when  I  entered,  then 
came  a  year  of  interregnum,  and  then  President  Eliot.  I 
think  that  I  cannot  add  anything  to  this  bare  statement  by 
way  of  describing  the  revolution  which  took  place  at  that 
time  in  Harvard,  and  my  class  happened  to  come  just  at  the 
parting  of  the  ways.  We  realized  that  a  great  change  had 
occurred,  but  naturally  did  not  grasp  its  meaning  or  even 
dream  how  fast  and  far  the  change  thus  begun  would  go. 
No  one,  I  think,  could  have  imagined  the  vast  growth  of  the 
university  in  every  direction  under  the  administration  of 
President  Eliot.  My  class,  to  take  a  single  illustration, 
numbered  one  hundred  and  fifty-eight  at  graduation.  It 
was  much  the  largest  class  which  had  ever  entered  the  col- 
lege or  graduated  from  it,  and  was  not  surpassed  in  numbers 
for  some  years  afterwards.  Now  a  class  at  Harvard  is  three 

180 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  181 

or  four  times  as  large  as  mine,  and  a  single  class  has  not  in- 
frequently more  members  than  all  the  undergraduates  to- 
gether in  1867-1871. 

The  enormous  increase  in  the  number  of  students,  how- 
ever, is,  after  all,  only  one  manifestation  of  the  changes 
wrought  at  Cambridge  during  the  last  forty  years.  As  I  am 
not  writing  a  history  of  modern  Harvard,  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  describe,  still  less  to  analyze  or  criticise,  this  great  revolu- 
tion in  the  oldest  university  in  America,  which  in  its  course 
has  had  a  profound  effect  upon  all  education  in  the  United 
States.  I  shall  allude  to  only  two  things :  one,  the  passing 
of  an  old  custom  in  which  I  was  concerned  and  which  marked 
by  its  departure  the  rapid  obliteration  of  the  eighteenth- 
century  college  then  in  progress,  while  the  other  was  the 
effect  which  one  of  the  most  important  of  the  modern  re- 
forms had  upon  me  personally. 

In  the  old  days  there  was  a  solemn  and  public  perform- 
ance which  took  place  in  the  autumn,  consisting  of  exercises 
like  those  of  commencement,  with  orations,  dissertations, 
and  addresses,  and  preceded  by  a  procession,  as  on  the  great 
occasion  of  graduation.  This  ceremony  was  called  the 
"Junior  Exhibition,"  and  had  given  rise  to  a  burlesque  ver- 
sion which  was  known  as  "mock  parts,"  and  which  took 
place  at  the  same  time.  The  real  "Exhibition"  had  been 
abandoned  before  I  entered  college,  but  the  parody  survived. 
A  committee  of  the  junior  class  was  appointed  and  wrote 
an  account  of  an  imaginary  procession  in  which  members 
of  the  class  figured  in  various  ridiculous  capacities.  Then 
followed  the  announcement  of  the  parts,  much  more  numer- 
ous than  in  the  real  performance,  and  covering  practically 
all  members  of  the  junior  class.  These  parts  were  sent  in 
to  or  devised  by  the  committee,  and  consisted  chiefly  of 
quotations  which  were  supposed  to  jeer  at  or  hit  off  the 
foibles  and  peculiarities  of  the  unfortunate  boy  to  whom 


182  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  part  was  assigned.  To  give  an  example  drawn  from  an- 
other class  than  my  own: 

"A  DISSERTATION 

THE  GREAT  ERYMANTHIAN  BOAR, 

JOHN  HARVARD  STOUGHTON." 

A  few,  a  very  few,  of  the  parts  were  complimentary.  The 
mock  part  of  our  first  scholar  was,  for  instance:  "And  lo! 
Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest."  Most  of  the  gibes, 
however,  were  chaff  and  jokes,  doing  no  harm  and,  perhaps, 
some  good;  but  there  was  always  a  certain  proportion  di- 
rected against  unpopular  men  which  were  often  harsh  and 
sometimes  cruel. 

The  ceremony  took  place  on  a  Saturday  morning  after 
recitations.  The  classes  were  drawn  up  in  a  hollow  square 
in  front  of  Hollis,  the  juniors  facing  the  building,  the  seniors 
on  the  right,  the  sophomores  on  the  left,  and  the  freshmen, 
with  no  assigned  place,  hovering  on  the  outside.  Then  the 
chairman  of  the  committee,  a  post  which  I  filled  in  1869, 
seated  himself  on  the  sill  of  a  first-floor  window  in  Hollis 
with  his  legs  swinging  in  vacancy  and  proceeded  to  read 
the  account  of  the  procession  and  then  the  parts  amid  the 
plaudits  and  laughter  of  the  crowd,  which,  like  most  crowds, 
not  only  had  a  love  of  fun,  but  enjoyed  the  infliction  of  a 
little  suffering.  I  read  the  parts  effectively  and  successfully, 
so  that  everybody  heard  them,  and  took  considerable  pride 
in  my  fleeting  notoriety.  But  I  soon  had  reason  to  regret 
my  brief  hour  of  triumph.  Some  of  the  men  who  were 
wounded  never  forgave  me,  and  I  found  to  my  surprise  that 
I  was  held  responsible  for  all  the  parts,  which  were  the  work 
of  many  hands  and  which  had  been  approved  and  selected 
by  the  entire  committee.  I  felt  much  hurt  as  well  as  aston- 
ished by  this  popular  injustice,  but  I  subsequently  discov- 
ered that  it  was  common  in  larger  matters  and  to  more 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  183 

numerous,  older,  and  larger  populations  than  college  boys 
can  furnish.  No  successor,  however,  was  destined  to  suffer 
in  the  same  way.  The  custom  of  "mock  parts"  was  then 
considered  to  be  as  permanent  as  the  college  itself,  but  the  old 
habits  were  changing,  and  reform  was  in  the  air.  The  next 
class,  which  was  more  virtuous  than  ours,  not  only  voted  to 
give  up  hazing,  in  which  we  had  indulged  and  from  which 
we  had  suffered,  but  they  also  determined  to  abolish  "mock 
parts."  That  was  the  end  of  it;  it  was  never  revived,  and 
the  college  in  a  few  years  had  forgotten  and  outgrown  the 
parody  of  an  extinct  ceremony.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that 
I  had  the  distinction  of  being  the  last  student  to  read  "mock 
parts"  at  Harvard.  Now,  all  these  years  afterwards,  when 
the  little  stings  which  I  inflicted  and  which  were  inflicted 
upon  me  have  long  since  ceased  to  smart,  I  am  glad  to  think 
that  I  was  connected  with  the  old  college  times  of  which 
"mock  parts"  were  emblematical  and  which  I  saw  depart. 
If  I  could  not  save  them — and  they  probably  were  not  worth 
saving,  these  old  customs — I  did  my  duty  by  them  at  least 
once  and  stood  on  the  shore  and  waved  one  of  them  a  cheer- 
ful farewell  as  it  drifted  off  down  the  stream  of  time.  I  felt 
a  good  deal  of  excitement  and  elation  at  the  moment,  be- 
cause, except  for  my  involuntary  presence  in  the  witness-box 
at  Lawrence,  it  was  my  first  appearance  in  public,  and  I 
succeeded  before  my  first  audience.  It  left,  moreover,  an 
indelible  impression  on  my  mind.  I  do  not  know  how  it 
may  be  with  others,  but  with  me  it  often  happens  that  a 
familiar  scene  remains  inextricably  associated  with  a  par- 
ticular day  and  a  particular  event.  There  are  few  places 
in  the  world  more  familiar  to  me  than  the  college  yard  at 
Cambridge,  but  when  I  see  it  hi  the  mirror  of  memory  the 
image  before  me  is  what  I  saw  as  I  sat  in  the  window  of 
"Hollis"  on  that  day  of  "mock  parts."  Perhaps  it  was  the 
position,  probably  even  more  the  event,  but  I  always  think 


184  EARLY  MEMORIES 

of  the  yard  as  it  looked  that  morning.  It  was  early  autumn, 
and  the  elms,  not  yet  shorn  of  leaves,  still  drew  their  arches 
across  the  sky.  The  warm  red  of  the  old  buildings,  with 
"University"  gray  and  cold  in  the  distance,  gave  color  to 
the  scene.  And  over  all  was  that  pleasant  atmosphere  of 
the  past  so  rare  in  America,  that  sense  of  quiet  and  repose 
which  tradition  and  habit  give,  and  the  feeling  that  behind 
the  laughing  crowd  gathered  there  before  me  could  be  heard 
the  footfall  of  the  successive  generations  who  had  trodden 
that  pleasant  spot  and  thence  passed  out  into  the  world 
beyond. 

The  other  incident  connected  with  the  revolution  in  the 
college  system  which  began  in  the  middle  of  my  course  was 
widely  different  from  the  last  observance  of  an  old  college 
custom.  There  was  nothing  about  it  with  a  tinge  of  senti- 
ment. It  was  merely  a  result  of  the  reform  which  found 
one  of  its  chief  expressions  in  the  extension  of  the  elective 
system.  Timidly  and  tentatively  there  had  come  a  move- 
ment in  this  direction  before  the  arrival  of  President  Eliot, 
as  light  and  separated  gusts  of  wind  precede  the  rush  of  the 
thunder-storm.  We  therefore  found  ourselves  at  the  end 
of  our  sophomore  year  with  a  considerable  latitude  of  choice. 
I  did  not  question  the  virtues  of  the  new  system  then,  be- 
cause, dexterously  managed,  it  opened  a  generous  oppor- 
tunity for  lightening  the  burden  of  studies.  I  have  had  a 
good  many  doubts  about  its  perfections  since.  Under  the 
old  compulsory  plan  a  certain  amount  of  knowledge,  no  more 
useless  than  any  other,  and  a  still  larger  amount  of  discipline 
in  learning  were  forced  upon  all  alike.  Under  the  new  sys- 
tem it  was  possible  to  escape  without  learning  anything  at 
all  by  a  judicious  selection  of  unrelated  studies  in  subjects 
taken  up  only  because  they  were  easy  or  the  burden  imposed 
by  those  who  taught  them  was  light.  I  do  not  intend  to 
argue  the  merits  of  the  case,  but  desire  merely  to  explain 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  185 

the  effect  upon  myself.  I  wished  to  take  my  degree  with 
as  little  effort  as  possible,  and  so  arranged  my  recitations 
as  to  give  myself  the  largest  possible  spaces  of  uninter- 
rupted time  for  my  own  amusements.  This  was  not  the 
ambition  of  serious  and  right-minded  students;  but  the 
majority  of  undergraduates  are  not  very  serious,  and  my 
practical  view  of  the  advantages  of  the  elective  system  is 
still,  I  think,  popular.  In  any  event,  the  results  to  me  were 
unfortunate.  I  had  been  thoroughly  drilled  under  the  old 
system  in  Latin  and  Greek,  and  having  some  aptitude  in 
languages  I  had  learned  to  read  both  with  facility.  I  could 
read  any  Latin  at  sight,  and  easy  Greek;  that  is,  in  my 
sophomore  year,  when  we  were  reading  the  Crito  and  the 
Gorgias,  I  never  had  to  prepare  for  a  recitation,  as  I  could 
construe  at  sight  whenever  called  upon.  If  I  had  gone  on 
with  my  Greek  and  Latin  I  should  have  become  so  thor- 
oughly grounded  in  both  that  they  would  have  remained 
with  me  through  life.  But  the  enlarged  elective  system  was 
a  fatal  temptation.  I  threw  over  mathematics,  of  course, 
and  that  was  no  loss,  for  I  never  should  have  retained  any 
learning  of  that  kind.  But  I  also  discarded  my  classics, 
because  the  hours  were  not  convenient  or  for  some  equally 
trivial  reason.  The  result  was  that,  although  I  have  man- 
aged to  retain  my  Latin  and  have  read  it  all  my  life  suffi- 
ciently well  for  pleasure,  my  Greek,  which  I  kept  up  for  a  few 
years  after  leaving  college,  was  lost  in  the  pressure  of  other 
employments,  and  now  I  can  only  read  it  with  difficulty  and 
have  not  leisure  to  recover  it.  So  it  comes  to  pass  that  I 
think  with  sorrow  of  my  own  folly  and  entertain  serious 
doubts  as  to  the  perfection  of  that  unrestricted  freedom  of 
election  which  gave  my  folly  scope  and  opportunity.  Of  the 
so-called  studies  with  which  I  replaced  the  classics,  I  have 
for  the  most  part  forgotten  even  the  names.  Two  courses, 
German  and  Italian,  which  I  selected  were  not  wholly  use- 


186  EARLY  MEMORIES 

less,  and  gave  me  a  smattering  of  two  modern  languages 
which  was  not  without  value,  and  in  the  case  of  Italian  de- 
veloped into  a  source  of  knowledge  and  pleasure.  I  also 
had  sufficient  sense  to  take  a  course  in  English  literature 
with  Lowell,  although  I  stupidly  missed  the  opportunity  to 
study  Dante  with  him.  But  the  English  literature  was 
something.  It  encouraged  a  strong  natural  taste  and  gave 
it  direction.  It  also  brought  me  into  contact  with  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  men  of  his  day  and  one  of  the  best  worth 
knowing.  I  came  to  know  him  better  in  the  after-years; 
but  I  like  to  think  that  I  was  one  of  his  students,  and  lis- 
tened to  that  beautiful  voice  and  delightful  English  and 
heard  his  witty  and  pregnant  criticisms  which  were  the  best 
part  of  his  teaching. 

But  in  all  my  four  years  I  never  really  studied  anything, 
never  had  my  mind  roused  to  any  exertion  or  to  anything 
resembling  active  thought  until  in  my  senior  year  I  stum- 
bled into  the  course  in  mediaeval  history  given  by  Henry 
Adams,  who  had  then  just  come  to  Harvard.  How  I  came 
to  choose  that  course  I  do  not  exactly  know.  I  was  fond  of 
history,  liked  to  read  it,  and  had  a  vague  curiosity  as  to  the 
Middle  Ages,  of  which  I  knew  nothing.  I  think  there  was 
no  more  intelligent  reason  than  this  for  my  selection.  But 
I  builded  better  than  I  knew.  I  found  myself  caught  by 
strong  interest,  I  began  to  think  about  the  subject,  Mr. 
Adams  roused  the  spirit  of  inquiry  and  controversy  in  me, 
and  I  was  fascinated  by  the  stormy  careers  of  the  great 
German  emperors,  by  the  virtues,  the  abilities,  the  dark 
crimes  of  the  popes,  and  by  the  tremendous  conflicts  be- 
tween church  and  empire  in  which  emperors  and  popes  were 
antagonists.  In  just  what  way  Mr.  Adams  aroused  my 
slumbering  faculties  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say,  but  there  can  be 
no  doubt  of  the  fact.  Mr.  Adams  has  told  me  many  times 
that  he  began  his  course  in  total  ignorance  of  his  own  sub- 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  187 

ject,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  fact  that  he,  too,  was 
learning  helped  his  students.  But  there  was  more  than  this. 
He  had  the  power  not  only  of  exciting  interest,  but  he 
awakened  opposition  to  his  own  views,  and  that  is  one  great 
secret  of  success  in  teaching.  In  any  event,  I  worked  hard  in 
that  course  because  it  gave  me  pleasure;  I  took  the  highest 
marks,  for  which  I  cared,  as  I  found,  singularly  little,  be- 
cause marks  were  not  my  object,  and  for  the  first  time  I  got 
a  glimpse  of  what  education  might  be  and  really  learned 
something.  I  have  never  lost  my  interest  in  the  Othos, 
the  Henrys,  and  the  Fredericks,  or  in  the  towering  figure 
of  Hildebrand.  They  have  always  remained  vital  and  full 
of  meaning  to  me,  and  a  few  years  ago  I  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  Salerno  with  Adams  himself  to  see  the  burial-place  of 
the  greatest  of  the  popes,  who  had  brought  an  emperor  to 
his  feet  and  had  died  a  beaten  exile.  Yet  it  was  not  what  I 
learned,  but  the  fact  that  I  learned  something,  that  I  dis- 
covered that  it  was  the  keenest  of  pleasures  to  use  one's 
mind,  a  new  sensation,  and  one  which  made  Mr.  Adams's 
course  in  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  so  memorable  to 
me.  I  have  often  wondered  since,  in  view  of  this  experi- 
ence, why  there  is  so  little  real  education  to  be  had,  and 
why,  as  a  rule,  what  passes  under  that  name  is  so  dry  and 
meaningless  and  sometimes  so  repulsive. 

From  this  outline  of  my  intellectual  experiences  at  Har- 
vard, a  dispassionate  and  serious-minded  observer  would 
say  that  my  four  years  at  Harvard  were  wasted,  and  so,  in 
one  way,  I  suppose  they  were.  In  the  largest  sense  they 
were,  I  think,  anything  but  wasted,  and  I  look  back  upon 
them  without  remorse  and  with  great  pleasure,  which  is, 
perhaps,  a  humiliating  confession,  as  college  is  supposed  to 
be  a  place  primarily  if  not  wholly  for  education  and  the 
improvement  of  one's  mind,  and  I  got  very  little  of  either. 
I  detested  school,  and  I  think  the  "happy  school-days" 


188  EARLY  MEMORIES 

theory  is  a  popular  fallacy  of  an  entirely  conventional 
kind.  On  the  other  hand,  I  enjoyed  college  thoroughly 
and  had  four  very  happy  years  at  Harvard.  I  was  very 
idle  and  devoted  my  energies  to  amusing  myself,  with 
great  success  and  in  the  manner  and  with  the  intelligence 
common  to  that  stage  of  life.  I  meant  to  go  through  col- 
lege, and  I  did  so  without  ever  being  conditioned,  graduating 
near  the  end  of  the  first  half  of  my  class.  But  I  intended 
also  to  effect  this  purpose  with  the  least  possible  trouble  and 
effort  to  myself  and  with  the  minimum  of  mental  labor, 
and  in  this,  too,  I  succeeded.  I  desired  also  to  enjoy  myself 
as  much  as  possible,  and  I  did  this,  too.  I  took  a  sufficiency 
of  exercise,  both  at  the  gymnasium  and  on  the  river,  because 
I  was  fond  of  it,  but  without  any  ambition  for  distinction 
in  those  directions,  and  yet  from  the  boat  and  from  spar- 
ring and  single-stick  I  derived  not  only  wholesome  habits 
of  exercise,  but  an  amount  of  real  good  which  it  would  be 
hard  to  estimate.  They  were  certainly  far  more  profita- 
ble than  billiards  and  cards,  to  which  I  also  gave  a  great 
deal  of  attention,  so  much,  indeed,  that  I  have  never  cared 
for  them  since.  But  my  greatest  and  most  profitable  en- 
joyments were  derived  from  the  many  friendships  I  then 
made  or  continued.  Most  of  them  have  lasted  through 
life,  a  few  have  been  among  my  best  possessions,  and  all, 
I  find,  no  matter  how  far  time  and  circumstances  may 
have  brought  separations  in  place  or  occupations  or  inter- 
ests, have  kept  the  flavor  of  those  early  days,  something 
which  no  other  days  can  give.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
be  elected  a  member  of  all  the  societies  I  desired  to  join. 
Two  of  them  were  theatrical,  and  this  opened  a  field  which 
had  always  held  for  me  a  strong  fascination.  In  our  sopho- 
more society  I  made  a  hit  as  a  Yorkshireman  in  one  of 
Kenny's  comedies  at  the  first  performance  given  by  our 
class.  I  imagine  that  the  dialect  which  I  saw  fit  to  adopt 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  189 

was  as  remote  from  the  speech  of  Yorkshire  as  it  was  from 
any  other  spoken  by  men.  But  my  audience  was  as  ignorant 
as  I;  and  since  it  succeeded  with  them  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  desired.  At  all  events;  it  fixed  my  fate.  I  was 
thought  to  have  histrionic  capacity,  and  from  that  time  for- 
ward I  had  a  leading  part  at  every  performance  and  was 
usually  either  the  acting  or  the  stage  manager.  This  con- 
tinued in  the  Hasty  Pudding  during  my  junior  and  senior 
years,  and  I  finally  extended  my  theatrical  activities  to 
authorship,  writing,  in  collaboration  with  our  class  poet, 
Henry  Swift,  a  rhymed  burlesque  of  "  Don  Giovanni,"  adapt- 
ing our  songs  to  those  of  the  opera  and  to  popular  airs  by 
other  composers  less  eminent  than  Mozart.  Not  being  a 
singer,  I  had  no  part  in  the  burlesque,  but  only  in  the  farce 
of  "Two  in  the  Tower,"  which  preceded  it.  The  burlesque, 
however,  had  an  enormous  success,  and  I  regret  the  loss  of 
its  precious  text  more  than  that  of  the  missing  books  of 
Livy,  for  I  should  like  now  to  read  over  those  jingles  and 
see  just  how  bad  they  were,  and  try  to  determine  whether 
there  was  anything  but  the  spirit  of  youth  which  caused 
them  to  give  so  much  hilarious  pleasure  both  to  the  listen- 
ers and  to  their  proud  authors. 

My  taste  for  the  theatre,  however,  led  me  in  those  col- 
lege years  to  many  performances  by  persons  more  expe- 
rienced than  I  or  my  friends,  and  among  these  performances 
were  some  worth  remembering.  It  was  the  college  fashion 
in  my  day  for  freshmen  to  go  on  as  "supes"  when  soldiers, 
peasants,  courtiers,  and  the  like  were  required  in  the  Italian 
operas  which  we  chiefly  affected.  There  was  much  com- 
petition for  the  limited  number  of  places,  and  I  suppose 
that  the  man  charged  with  securing  supernumeraries  took 
us  because  we  not  only  served  for  nothing,  but  were  ready 
to  pay  for  the  privilege,  which  meant  money  in  his  pocket 
instead  of  the  usual  outlay.  Indeed,  there  could  have  been 


190  EARLY  MEMORIES 

no  other  reason  for  our  employment,  as  we  must  have  been 
most  undesirable  assistants.  We  went  for  our  own  amuse- 
ment, not  to  promote  the  success  of  the  opera  or  the  play. 
We  were  undisciplined  and  recalcitrant;  if  there  was  any- 
thing to  be  done  in  the  way  of  marching  or  moving  about 
or  shouting  or  dancing,  we  did  it  with  great  violence;  and  we 
were  especially  disturbing  with  the  supernumerary  ladies, 
who  were  not  volunteers,  and  with  whom  we  were  more  popu- 
lar than  we  were  with  the  singers,  actors,  and  managers.  I 
remember  well  one  occasion  when,  in  the  first  act  of  "  Don 
Giovanni,"  we  were  deputed  in  our  capacity  as  soldiers  to 
bear  from  the  stage  the  body  of  the  murdered  Commendador. 
Four  stalwart  youths,  members  of  the  crew,  were  told  off 
for  this  duty.  They  grasped  the  arms  and  legs  of  the  un- 
fortunate father  of  Donna  Anna  and  whipped  him  up  so 
vigorously  and  easily  that  they  wrenched  his  arms  and  tore 
his  clothes,  bearing  him  lightly  from  the  stage  amid  a  cloud 
of  Italian  curses.  But  it  was  all  very  good  fun  for  fresh- 
men and  gave  one  a  knowledge  of  stage  management  and 
stage  effects  and  theatrical  people  which,  if  not  profitable, 
was  certainly  entertaining. 

I  shall  say  nothing  of  the  endless  plays  of  all  kinds  which 
I  attended  at  that  time,  for  it  was  in  those  days  the  fashion 
with  students  to  haunt  the  theatres;  but  there  were  a  few 
actors  whom  I  then  saw  who  are  worthy  of  recollection.  It 
was  then  that  I  again  saw  Edwin  Forrest,  of  whom  I  have 
already  spoken,  and  whom  I  had  seen  in  "Metamora," 
which  was  violent,  absurd,  and  popular.  I  now  witnessed, 
and  with  better  understanding  I  hope,  his  performance  of 
"Richelieu"  and  of  " Hamlet,"  in  which  he  was  very  fine. 
He  was  then,  of  course,  an  elderly  man,  and  perhaps  for  that 
reason  subdued;  but  his  Hamlet  was  singularly  strong  and 
impressive,  the  performance  of  a  really  great  actor  in  accord- 
ance with  the  traditions  of  the  English  stage.  He  did  not 


HARVARD  :  1867-1871  191 

equal  Edwin  Booth,  whom  I  saw  constantly  then  and  after- 
wards, for  Booth  was  not  only  unsurpassed  as  Hamlet,  but 
unrivalled  in  the  great  Shakespearean  roles  by  any  one  I 
have  ever  seen  in  America,  in  England,  or  in  Europe.  At 
about  that  same  time  I  saw  Charles  Kean  and  his  wife 
(Ellen  Tree).  Kean  was  the  very  reverse  of  Forrest.  He 
was  an  excellent  actor,  educated,  cultivated,  trained,  but 
without  a  spark  of  genius  so  far  as  I  could  perceive.  He 
was  admirable  as  Louis  XI,  although  not  so  perfect  as  Irving, 
who  seemed  to  have  been  born  for  that  particular  part. 
Mrs.  Kean  was  very  fine  as  Queen  Katherine,  and  I  have 
never  seen  any  one  who  approached  her  beautiful  perform- 
ance of  the  fool  in  "Lear." 

At  that  period  also,  when  I  had  just  entered  college,  I 
heard  Mrs.  Kemble  and  Dickens  read:  the  one  from  Shake- 
speare, the  other  from  his  own  books.  Mrs.  Kemble  was 
then  a  stout,  elderly  woman,  and  her  beauty,  so  'famous  in 
her  youth,  had  faded.  She  came  upon  the  stage  of  the  Music 
Hall  in  Boston  plainly  dressed  in  black.  There  were  no 
theatrical  adjuncts,  no  artificial  aids  of  any  kind.  She  read 
the  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  and  in  five  minutes  one  was  con- 
scious only  of  her  dignity,  the  beauty  of  her  voice,  the  marvel 
of  her  dramatic  presentation.  I  sat  entranced  as  the  play 
gradually  unrolled  itself  before  my  mental  vision,  as  the 
characters,  carefully  differentiated  by  the  voice  alone,  passed 
over  the  stage,  and  as  the  exquisite  poetry  chimed  and  mur- 
mured in  my  ears. 

Dickens  was  a  sharp  contrast.  I  had  a  boyish  adoration 
of  his  books,  and  I  looked  forward  with  intense  excitement 
to  seeing  and  hearing  him.  I  heard  him  several  times,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  the  joy  of  listening  to  the  trial  scene  from 
"  Pickwick."  Yet  after  it  was  all  over  the  general  effect  left 
on  my  mind  was  a  feeling  of  vague  disappointment.  I  could 
not  have  explained  that  feeling  then,  but  I  think  that  I  can 


192  EARLY  MEMORIES 

now.  Dickens  as  an  actor,  and  he  acted  in  his  readings, 
was  vivid, effective,  full  of  force, energy,  and  dramatic  power; 
but  he  lacked  exactly  what  Mrs.  Kemble  possessed — dignity, 
reserve,  refinement,  scholarship,  and  high  training.  You 
never  forgot  for  a  moment  that  Mrs.  Kemble  was  a  lady. 
You  were  haunted  by  a  suspicion  that  Dickens  was  not 
quite  a  gentleman;  that  somewhere  there  lurked  the  traces 
of  the  London  cockney.  I  say  this  as  a  devoted  lover  and 
admirer  of  Dickens.  His  books  and  his  characters  have 
been  my  lifelong  friends  and  companions.  He  had  a  great 
and  noble  genius,  an  imagination  which  was  as  vivid  as  it 
was  fertile  and  original.  I  admire  him  more  now,  I  place 
him  higher  than  I  ever  did  before,  but  I  see  the  deductions 
which  a  sane  criticism  must  make  and  I  realize  the  defects 
which  escaped  the  indiscriminate  admiration  of  boyhood. 
The  creative  imagination,  the  unending  humor,  the  hatred 
of  wrong,  the  fierce  satire  which  has  never  been  enough 
appreciated,  the  eternal  quality  so  admirably  pointed  out 
by  Mr.  Chesterton,  are  all  there  from  beginning  to  end. 
Moreover,  Dickens  never  ceased  to  improve  as  an  artist. 
He  was  always  advancing  in  construction,  in  style,  and  in 
force,  even  when  his  marvellous  creative  power  seemed  to 
slacken.  But  his  tendency  toward  melodrama,  although  it 
diminished,  never  wholly  left  him.  I  have  always  loved 
"Nicholas  Nickleby  ";  so  much,  indeed,  that  I  do  not  resent 
Ralph  Nickleby  saying,  "My  curse,  my  bitter,  deadly  curse, 
upon  you,  boy!"  after  the  manner  of  the  Surrey  theatres. 
But  the  atrocious  vulgarity  of  his  associate  and  titled  vil- 
lains, and  the  unbearable  goodness  and  clamorous  benevo- 
lence of  the  Cheeryble  brothers  in  that  same  great  story, 
were  too  much  for  me  even  in  my  youthful  days.  Yet  while 
one  can  forgive  the  cheap  melodrama,  one  cannot  forgive 
the  cheap  pathos,  the  "wallowing  naked  in  the  pathetic," 
the  resort  to  the  death  and  suffering  of  children  to  extort  a 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  193 

tragic  effect,  the  false  sentiment  of  "Little  Nell"  and  the 
rest,  which  are  as  unreal  and  hollow  and  as  bad  art  as  the 
metred  prose  in  which  that  heroine's  death  is  told.  It  was 
an  undefined  sense  of  these  very  things  which  came  to  me 
when  I  saw  Dickens.  The  humor,  the  effectiveness,  the 
way  in  which  he  embodied  his  characters,  were  all  very 
wonderful;  but  his  somewhat  overdressed  appearance  and 
conscious  air,  and,  above  all,  the  fact  that  he  was  stagey 
when  he  should  have  been  dramatic,  left  a  light  but  unmis- 
takable flavor  of  rather  second-rate  pathos  and  melodrama 
from  which  there  was  no  escape.  Much  as  I  admired  the 
performance,  and  eager  as  I  was  to  hear  him,  when  it  was 
all  over  there  lingered  at  the  back  of  my  mind  a  slight  sense 
of  disappointment;  a  feeling  that  the  great  imaginative 
writer  who  was  and  had  always  been  so  much  to  me  lacked 
something  which  he  ought  to  have  possessed. 

All  these  things,  all  these  little  amusements,  these  long- 
faded  successes  and  mishaps,  as  well  as  the  thought  of  the 
friends  and  the  friendships  of  those  days  which  memory 
brings  in  her  train,  do  not  make  up  a  very  inspiring  record 
of  a  time  which  should  have  been  devoted  to  the  advance- 
ment of  learning.  It  sounds,  now  that  it  is  written  down 
here,  like  the  story  of  an  idle  and  unprofitable  boy.  Yet 
there  is  no  phase  of  it  to  which  I  do  not  look  back  with 
pleasure;  there  is  none  of  it  from  which  I  would  part  withal. 
I  am  not  sure  that  it  did  not  have  a  real  value  of  its  own.  I 
think  that  it  fitted  me  much  better  for  the  world  than  if  I  had 
never  gone  to  Harvard.  It  undoubtedly  gave  me  affections 
and  friendships  which  could  have  been  acquired  in  no  other 
way.  It  is  certain,  above  all,  that  I  achieved  one  main  pur- 
pose of  a  liberal  education — a  respect  for  the  work  of  other 
men  in  other  fields  of  which  I  knew  nothing.  With  this 
came  a  tolerance  for  the  pursuits  and  passions  of  others, 
and,  thanks  to  Henry  Adams,  I  was  imbued  with  a  realizing 


194  EARLY  MEMORIES 

sense  of  my  own  abounding  ignorance,  which  is  the  first 
rung  on  the  ladder  of  learning  and  the  best  education  that 
any  college  or  university  can  give. 

The  greatest  event  to  me,  however,  during  my  four 
years  at  Harvard  had  no  connection  whatever  with  the 
university.  In  my  junior  year  I  became  engaged  to  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Rear-Admiral  Davis,  and  to  him  and  to 
the  family  into  which  I  was  then  brought,  I  owe  in  large 
measure  the  affection  and  the  happiness  which  life  has  ac- 
corded to  me.  Bred  in  the  Boston  schools,  Admiral  Davis 
entered  Harvard  in  the  class  of  1825,  but  left  the  college 
at  the  end  of  his  sophomore  year  to  go  into  the  navy.  His 
career  in  the  navy  was  a  long  and  distinguished  one.  He 
was  a  man  of  high  attainments  in  the  exact  sciences,  and 
his  early  work  in  the  service  after  his  first  years  at  sea  was 
largely  scientific.  In  this  field  he  gained  much  distinction. 
He  was  engaged  in  the  first  work  of  the  Coast  Survey.  He 
was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Nautical  Almanac ,  and  he 
found  time  to  translate  Gauss's  "Theoria  Motus,"  a  trans- 
lation which,  I  believe,  has  never  been  superseded.  But  he 
was,  above  all,  a  sailor  and  a  naval  officer.  He  made  many 
long  cruises,  and  it  was  he  who  rescued  and  brought  off 
Walker  and  his  companions  after  their  filibustering  expedi- 
tion in  Nicaragua.  When  the  war  broke  upon  the  country, 
he  was  eminent  in  the  group  of  younger  officers  who  came  at 
once  to  the  front  and  upon  whom  the  burden  of  our  decisive 
naval  operations  fell.  He  was  fleet  captain  with  Dupont, 
they  were  very  intimate  friends,  and  together  they  planned 
and  carried  out  the  expedition  under  the  latter's  command 
which  resulted  in  the  capture  of  Port  Royal,  one  of  the  most 
important,  as  it  was  the  first,  of  our  great  naval  successes. 
Admiral  Davis  received  rapid  promotion,  and  not  long  after 
succeeded  Foote  in  command  on  the  Western  rivers.  He 
fought  and  won  the  battle  of  Memphis,  where  he  destroyed 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  195 

the  rebel  flotilla,  and  soon  after  was  again  successful  in 
the  fight  at  Fort  Pillow.  For  these  victories  he  received 
the  thanks  of  Congress. 

Broken  down  by  the  river  fever,  he  was  obliged  to  give 
up  his  command  and  return  to  Washington,  where  he  was 
put  at  the  head  of  the  Bureau  of  Navigation,  which  he  or- 
ganized, and  where  he  acted  as  chief  of  staff.  Toward  the 
close  of  the  war  he  was  appointed  superintendent  of  the 
Naval  Observatory,  the  highest  scientific  post  in  the  navy. 
When  I  first  knew  him  he  had  just  returned  from  a  three 
years'  cruise  in  command  of  our  South  American  squadron. 
Handsome  and  distinguished-looking,  of  pronounced  mili- 
tary bearing,  I  have  never  known  any  man  more  charming 
or  more  lovable.  In  his  perfect  simplicity,  in  his  absolute 
courage,  in  his  purity  of  mind  and  generosity  of  spirit,  he 
always  made  me  think  of  Colonel  Newcome.  But,  unlike 
Thackeray's  hero,  he  was  a  man  of  the  world  in  the  best 
sense,  of  high  professional  ability  and  unusual  intellectual 
force.  A  more  delightful  friend  and  companion  it  would  be 
difficult  to  imagine.  He  had  seen  cities  and  men,  he  had 
been  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  had  looked  upon  it  with 
a  broad  sympathy  and  a  complete  understanding.  His 
manners  were  not  only  delightful,  but  I  thought  then,  and 
think  still,  were  quite  perfect.  It  has  long  been  a  habit 
both  in  speech  and  writing  to  describe  manners  one  wishes 
to  commend  as  those  of  "a  gentleman  of  the  old  school." 
This  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  misleading  phrase,  involv- 
ing the  error  of  confusing  the  incidental  with  the  permanent. 
Differences  in  manners — and  by  manners  I  do  not,  of  course, 
mean  customs,  but  only  those  purely  personal  attributes 
which  are  the  results  of  training  and  tradition,  such  as  are 
implied  in  the  words  "old  school" — are  the  superficial,  acci- 
dental differences  of  time  and  place.  Really  fine  manners, 
I  think,  must  have  been,  and  must  always  be,  in  essence  the 


196  EARLY  MEMORIES 

same.  I  never,  for  instance,  saw  finer  manners  than  those 
of  the  famous  Chief  Joseph,  a  blanket  Indian,  in  his  full 
panoply  of  war-bonnet  and  paint,  one  night  at  a  White 
House  reception.  Good  manners,  whatever  the  outward 
changes  and  differences  at  different  periods  in  history,  must 
be  sympathetic,  considerate,  and,  above  all,  distinguished; 
and  if  they  have  these  qualities  in  high  degree,  then  they  are 
good  without  regard  to  details  of  dress  or  morals  or  form  of 
expression.  Tried  by  this  standard,  no  one  could  have  had 
finer  manners  than  Admiral  Davis,  and  if  we  add  that  they 
might  be  described  as  of  the  "old  school,"  it  merely  means 
that  we  have  fallen  on  a  time  which,  unfortunately,  thinks 
less  of  good  manners  than  our  ancestors  did  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

Admiral  Davis  had  travelled  also  in  "the  realms  of 
gold"  as  widely  as  among  the  kingdoms  of  earth,  and  he 
loved  literature  and  learning  in  every  form.  He  was  a 
scholar  in  the  old-fashioned  sense,  and  the  Latin  classics 
were  more  with  him  almost  than  those  of  his  own  speech, 
or  of  any  of  the  modern  tongues  in  which  he  was  versed, 
for  he  was  an  accomplished  linguist.  This  love  of  letters 
never  waned.  He  told  me  that  he  meant  to  take  up  his 
Greek  again  when  he  had  retired  from  active  service— a  time, 
alas,  which  never  came — and  devote  himself  to  that  great 
literature  which  he  felt  that  he  had  too  much  neglected. 
His  favorite  book  was  Shakespeare,  whom  he  seemed  to 
know  almost  by  heart,  the  fruit  of  long  voyages,  when  he 
read  and  read  again  the  few  books  which  he  could  take  with 
him  on  his  ship.  His  second  love  was  Virgil,  and  the  Vir- 
gilian  lines  were  constantly  on  his  lips.  The  grace  and  dis- 
tinction of  the  gentlest  and  most  refined  of  Roman  poets 
peculiarly  appealed  to  him. 

But  more  than  all  his  accomplishments  was  the  nature 
of  the  man  himself.  No  mean  or  low  thought  ever  crossed 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  197 

his  mind.  High-minded  himself  to  the  last  degree,  it  was 
a  positive  pain  to  him  to  hear,  still  more  to  believe,  anything 
ill  of  anyone.  His  gentleness  and  kindness  were  not  those 
of  the  weakly  good-natured,  but  of  the  man  of  strength  and 
courage,  who  would  do  his  duty  without  fear  or  favor,  and 
who  hated  evil  and  evil-doers.  He  had  an  infinite  humor 
and  a  love  of  nonsense  and  fun,  ever  among  the  most  en- 
dearing of  qualities.  One  could  say  of  him,  with  the  slight 
change  which  sex  commands,  as  Steele  said  of  Lady  Eliza- 
beth Hastings,  that  to  know  him  was  a  liberal  education. 
He  had  the  secret  of  eternal  youth,  that  gift  so  rarely  be- 
stowed and  which  has  such  perpetual  charm.  With  all  his 
experience  of  life,  with  all  his  labors  and  activities,  he  never 
grew  old  in  heart  or  mind.  Age  and  years  appeared  to  have 
no  relation  to  him.  The  freshness  of  the  dawn  was  ever 
upon  him,  and  when,  paying  at  last  the  long-delayed  penalty 
of  his  hard  service  in  the  war,  he  suddenly  broke  down  at 
the  age  of  seventy,  it  seemed  to  all  that  he  had  died  prema- 
turely and  in  the  flush  of  youth. 

That  others  felt  about  him  as  I  did,  and  saw  in  him  the 
qualities  I  have  tried  to  describe,  is  shown  by  the  following 
letter  from  Mr.  Motley,  the  historian,  who  was  one  of  the 
admiraPs  lifelong  friends. 

LONDON,  22nd  March,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  CABOT: — 

Your  last  letter  was  more  than  six  months  ago  (llth  of  July, 
76)  and  I  did  not  think  that  one  so  interesting  and  instructive 
would  have  remained  so  long  without  a  reply. 

But  before  I  say  another  word  on  any  other  topic  let  me  tell 
you  that  my  object  today  is  to  beg  you  to  express  to  your  wife 
and  her  mother  my  deep,  true  and  tender  sympathy  with  them  in 
the  great  affliction  which  has  befallen  them  in  the  death  of  Admiral 
Davis. 

It  is  only  within  two  or  three  days  that  I  learned  the  sad  event 


198  EARLY  MEMORIES 

in  the  newspapers,  for  I  have  had  no  letters  from  home  for  some 
time. 

I  grieve  most  truly  for  you  all,  for  I  know  full  well  what  he  was, 
and  although  he  has  been  permitted  to  attain  to  a  ripe  age  and 
to  round  into  fullness  a  bright,  noble  and  consistent  career,  yet 
these  reflections  cannot  mitigate  the  pangs  of  such  a  loss.  The 
longer  such  a  man  lives,  the  more  he  must  become  endeared  to 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  him. 

All  that  friends  can  do  is  to  utter  words  of  sympathy  and  of 
full  appreciation  of  his  virtues  and  high  qualities. 

His  public  career  is  part  of  our  history.  To  be  highly  dis- 
tinguished both  in  the  practical  and  the  scientific  part  of  the  noble 
profession  to  which  his  life  was  devoted  and  which  he  adorned,  is 
much.  But  it  was  permitted  him  to  write  his  name  in  bright 
letters  on  the  most  trying,  eventful  and  heroic  page  of  our  history 
and  there  it  must  remain  so  long  as  we  have  a  history. 

Death  comes  to  all,  but  when  it  comes  to  end  a  life  which  has 
been  filled  full  of  honorable  actions,  of  devotion  to  duty,  of  chival- 
rous inspiration,  our  deepest  regrets  are  rather  for  the  survivors 
than  for  the  dead. 

For  myself  I  shall  always  be  glad  that  I  had  the  great  pleasure 
of  seeing  him  in  the  midst  of  his  family  at  Nahant  during  the 
summer  of  '75,  which  I  passed  among  you  all. 

He  was,  I  am  proud  to  say,  my  friend  from  early  years  and  he 
is  associated  with  many  of  the  brightest  and  tenderest  remem- 
brances of  my  life.  He  was  the  valued  friend  of  one  dearer  to 
me  than  life  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  think  of  him  or  of  your 
mother-in-law  without  thinking  of  Her. 

And  he  always  seemed  to  me  the  same  man — in  youth  and  in 
advanced  years — of  the  same  simple,  truthful,  genial,  sympathetic, 
unaffected  presence,  thoughtful  and  appreciative  of  others,  un- 
demonstrative in  himself — unchanged  after  he  had  achieved  so 
much  from  what  he  was  when  his  career  was  but  just  beginning. 

I  shall  always  cherish  his  memory  and  once  more  I  beg  you  to 
say  all  that  can  be  said  on  my  part  of  true  feeling  to  Mrs.  Davis 
and  her  daughter. 

I  will  say  no  more. 

I  reserve  for  another  day  a  letter  which  I  need  to  write  in  answer 
to  yours  very  soon.  I  hope  you  will  write  to  me  again  whenever 
you  can.  Your  letters  are  always  very  interesting  to  me. 


HARVARD  :   1867-1871  199 

Give  my  best  love  to  your  Mother,  in  which,  as  well  as  to  your 
Wife,  Susie  begs  to  join,  and  believe  me 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

J.  L.  MOTLEY 

On  May  12,  1871, 1  came  of  age.  On  June  24  I  received 
my  degree,  graduating  entirely  without  distinction,  near  the 
end  of  the  first  half  of  the  class.  The  following  day  I  was 
married  in  the  eighteenth-century  Episcopal  church,  which 
faces  the  college  yard  and  the  Common,  and  looks  across 
the  old  graveyard  to  the  Unitarian  church,  with  its  high, 
sharp  spire,  on  the  other  side. 

"  Like  sentinel  and  nun  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green; 
One  seems  to  guard  and  one  to  weep, 
The  dead  that  lie  between." 

In  August  we  set  forth  on  a  German  liner  for  Europe, 
taking  with  us  my  wife's  sister,  Evelyn.  The  days  of  child- 
hood and  youth,  of  school  and  college,  of  much  enjoyment, 
of  cheerful  irresponsibility,  were  over.  A  new  time  had  be- 
gun, and  whatever  else  might  happen  the  future  was  certain 
to  bring  growing  responsibilities,  for  I  had  provided  myself 
with  that  assurance  as  a  preliminary.  As  I  look  back  now 
to  that  parting  of  the  ways  I  pause  a  moment  before  I  leave 
the  old  days  to  say  a  word  of  the  changes  which  have 
taken  place  in  society  between  that  time  and  this,  in  man- 
ners, in  customs,  and  in  the  less  serious  things  of  life. 


CHAPTER  IX 
RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST 

IT  is  no  more  possible  to  draw  definite  lines  dividing  one 
part  of  life  from  another  than  it  is  to  separate  historical 
periods  with  exactness  by  the  rigid  number  of  a  given  cen- 
tury. Yet  when  a  man  passes  from  the  irresponsibility  of  the 
years  of  school  and  college,  when  the  artificial  period  fixed  by 
law  for  coming  of  age  is  attained  and  coincides,  as  it  did  in 
my  case,  with  marriage,  with  the  assumption  of  responsi- 
bilities, and  with  the  first  vague  questionings  as  to  what 
one  is  to  do  with  life,  there  seems  at  that  moment  as  one 
contemplates  the  past  a  natural  separation  between  that 
which  has  befallen  us  since  the  annus  mirdbilis  and  that 
which  has  gone  before.  The  early  days  appear  to  be  shut 
off  from  those  which  follow,  although  in  reality  they  glided 
quite  imperceptibly  into  each  other.  Looking  back  one 
instinctively  pauses  at  this  point,  for  just  here  the  tempta- 
tion to  compare  the  world  and  society  as  one  knew  them  at 
the  outset  of  life  and  as  one  knows  them  to-day,  after  forty 
years  have  wrought  their  changes,  becomes  irresistible. 

That  human  environment  has  altered  more  in  the  last 
seventy  years,  since  the  first  application  of  steam  and  elec- 
tricity to  transportation  and  communication,  than  it  had 
in  two  thousand  or,  indeed,  in  six  thousand  years  previously, 
is  a  truism  to  those  who  have  taken  the  trouble  to  consider 
this  subject.  Moreover,  since  the  first  application  of  steam 
and  electricity  the  revolution  in  the  conditions  of  human  ex- 
istence has  gone  forward  with  constantly  accelerating  force 
and  rapidity.  When  I  was  born  the  fundamental  change 

200 


RETROSPECT  AND   CONTRAST  201 

had  already  taken  place.  For  more  than  forty  years  the 
world  had  possessed  the  steamboat,  for  twenty  years  the 
railroad,  and  messages  had  been  carried  for  six  years  at 
least  by  the  electric  wire.  I  have  never  known,  therefore, 
the  world  and  society  as  they  were  before  these  great  instru- 
ments of  communication  and  transportation  existed.  But 
these  far-reaching  inventions  were  nevertheless  still  in  their 
infancy  when  I  was  advancing  from  the  cradle  to  boyhood 
and  from  boyhood  to  manhood.  The  steamboat,  although 
widely  used,  was  still,  comparatively  speaking,  undeveloped, 
especially  on  the  ocean.  Railroads  were  limited  in  extent 
and  were  even  less  developed  than  steamboats.  The  enor- 
mous spread  of  both  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe  and  the  cor- 
responding increase  in  rapidity  of  movement  have  been  the 
work  of  the  last  sixty  years.  The  sleeping-car,  the  parlor- 
car,  the  fast  through  trains,  the  huge  steamships,  ten  or 
twelve  times  as  large  as  any  existing  in  my  boyhood,  which 
now  cross  the  Atlantic  in  less  than  a  week,  have  all  made 
their  gradual  appearance  during  my  lifetime.  In  the  world 
upon  which  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  in  which  I  lived  and 
played  contentedly  for  many  years,  there  were  no  ocean 
cables  and  only  a  very  limited  system  of  telegraphs.  I  re- 
member the  beginning  of  street  railways,  which  in  their 
growth  and  by  the  application  of  electricity  as  a  motive 
power  have  revolutionized  (there  is  no  other  word)  local 
communications,  upon  which  the  daily  life  of  the  people  so 
largely  depends.  I  have  seen  the  telephone  appear  and 
spread  until  it  has  grown  insensibly  to  be  an  integral  part  of 
our  existence.  I  have  seen  wireless  telegraphy  begin,  electric 
lighting  introduced,  the  motor-car  come  into  general  use, 
and  if  I  should  live  a  few  years  longer  I  shall,  I  suppose,  be- 
hold, with  the  indifference  born  of  familiarity,  the  outlines 
of  flying-machines  dark  against  the  sky.  There  have  been 
many  other  inventions,  many  marvellous  scientific  discov- 


202  EARLY  MEMORIES 

eries,  of  course,  in  my  time,  but  I  mention  only  those  which 
have  changed  radically  human  environment  and  the  con- 
ditions of  life,  thereby  affecting  the  evolution  of  the  human 
race  as  only  a  changed  environment  can  affect  it.  If  new 
conditions  powerful  enough  to  produce  evolutionary  move- 
ments have  been  created,  then  society,  customs,  and  man- 
ners, which  are  the  mere  reflections  of  the  desires  and  tend- 
encies of  mankind  at  any  given  moment,  must  be  profoundly 
affected  also  by  such  extraordinary  changes  in  environment. 
To  any  man  who  has  lived  beyond  middle  age,  the  altera- 
tions which  he  has  witnessed  and  the  contrasts  between  the 
world  he  knows  and  that  in  which  he  began  life  must  be,  and 
at  almost  any  period  of  human  history  must  have  always 
been,  very  apparent.  How  much  more  startling  are  such 
changes  and  how  much  more  profound  and  far-reaching  when 
the  years  cover  the  birth  and  growth  of  new  conditions  more 
extreme  in  their  meaning  and  effects  than  any  which  have 
occurred  in  man's  environment  within  historic  times!  The 
men  and  women  born  between  1830  and  1870  who  still  live 
have  passed  through  this  period  and,  unconsciously  for  the 
most  part,  have  watched  these  bewildering  metamorphoses 
come  and  have  beheld  the  new  order  establish  itself.  Reali- 
zing, as  I  think  I  do,  these  contrasts  and  changes,  it  is  per- 
haps, not  amiss  to  note  them  down.  I  am  not  concerned  to 
decide  whether  the  alterations  in  customs,  society,  and 
manners,  born  of  the  new  environment  and  the  new  condi- 
tions of  life,  are  in  my  opinion  for  better  or  worse.  That  is 
a  matter  of  personal  taste.  One  can  take  the  Homeric  posi- 
tion that  the  men  of  old  time  were  worth  more  than  those 
of  the  present,  or,  if  one  prefers,  that  of  early  Christian  pes- 
simism, and  hold,  with  Bernard  of  Clairvaux,  that 

"The  world  is  very  evil, 
The  times  are  growing  late." 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  203 

On  the  other  hand,  we  can;  if  we  are  of  a  cheerful  tempera- 
ment, cling  to  the  creed  of  the  nineteenth  century,  that  man- 
kind is  steadily  advancing  and  that  we  are  moving  slowly 
upward  to  perfection;  or  we  can  fall  back  on  the  opinion 
with  which  Machiavelli  shocked  the  world,  that,  although 
customs  alter,  humanity  is  ever  the  same,  never  really  pro- 
gressing, but  always  possessed  of  the  same  virtues  and,  still 
more  distinctly,  of  the  same  vices.  These  are  all  arguable 
propositions,  but  I  have  no  thought  of  arguing  anything. 
I  wish  merely  to  point  out  certain  facts  without  any  attempt 
to  pass  judgment  upon  their  merits  or  to  praise  or  blame 
existing  conditions. 

The  society  into  which  I  was  born  and  of  which  I  became 
a  part  was,  aside  from  politics,  in  its  standards  and  fashions 
essentially  English.  The  colonial  habits  of  thought,  very 
natural  in  their  proper  time,  still  held  sway.  In  reading  the 
reminiscences  of  Mr.  George  Russell  and  of  Sir  Algernon 
West,  in  which  they  contrast  the  society  of  their  youth  with 
London  society  as  it  is  to-day,  I  was  struck  by  the  absolute 
identity  of  many  of  the  vanished  manners  and  customs 
which  they  recall  with  those  which  I  remember.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  in  many  respects  they  were  writing  of  the  Boston 
which  I  knew  as  a  boy.  The  dominance  of  English  habits, 
fashions,  and  beliefs  may  have  been  more  pronounced  in 
Boston  and  New  England  than  elsewhere  in  the  United 
States,  but  I  doubt  if  there  was  any  serious  difference.  I  am 
satisfied  that  American  society,  in  its  opinions  and  habits, 
was  much  the  same  in  all  the  Atlantic  States,  that  is,  in 
the  former  colonies,  and  that  they  impressed  their  views 
upon  the  new  Western  States  as  the  latter  gradually  emerged 
from  the  backwoods,  pioneer  stage  of  development.  The 
books  we  read  from  those  of  childhood  onward  were  English, 
our  fashions  of  dress  were  English,  our  long,  generous,  heavy 
dinners  were  English;  the  ladies  left  the  men  in  the  dining- 


204  EARLY  MEMORIES 

room,  as  in  England,  and  as  they  still  do  in  Boston,  and  the 
Continental  habit  of  escorting  the  women  from  the  dining- 
room  to  the  drawing-room  was  unknown.  Our  literary 
standards,  our  standards  of  statesmanship,  our  modes  of 
thought,  apart  from  politics  and  diplomacy,  where  we  were 
really  independent,  were  as  English  as  the  trivial  customs 
of  the  dinner-table  and  the  ballroom. 

I  turn  to  the  "Autocrat,"  a  really  great  book,  which  hats 
not  even  yet  come  to  its  proper  place,  and  there,  at  the  very 
beginning,  I  find  the  delightful  passage  about  mutual  ad- 
miration societies.  Doctor  Holmes  had  read  more  widely, 
more  curiously,  more  thoroughly,  perhaps,  than  almost  any 
man  of  his  time,  and  analogies,  illustrations,  and  quotations 
teemed  in  his  memory  and  sprang  into  life  as  he  wrote.  Yet 
what  are  the  examples  he  gives  to  sustain  his  theme  of  the 
mutual  admiration  societies  of  men  of  genius  or  talent?  Two 
very  local  from  New  York  and  two  examples  from  England, 
the  Shakespearian  and  the  Johnsonian  groups.  The  poets 
of  the  "Pleiade,"  the  men  who  gathered  about  Lorenzo  de 
Medici  or  Petrarch  or  Boccaccio,  the  Venetian  group  of 
Aretino  and  Titian  and  Sansovino,  the  French  Romanticists 
of  1830,  and  many  others  were  as  familiar  to  him  as  to  the 
rest  of  the  world,  but  instinctively,  in  order  to  illustrate  his 
text,  he  takes  two  English  groups  and  no  others.  Turn  to 
Mark  Twain's  "Life  on  the  Mississippi"  and  read  there  his 
satire  about  the  influence  of  Scott  as  displayed  in  the  South- 
ern fancy  for  the  words  "knightly"  and  " chivalrous,"  and 
for  talking  about  "Norman  blood"  and  "cavaliers"  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  stage  machinery  of  the  famous  novels — a 
queer  trick  which  has  endured  to  much  later  times  than  those 
of  which  I  am  writing  at  this  moment.  It  all  tells  the  same 
story  of  the  manners,  customs,  and  social  ideals  of  the 
United  States  in  the  early  Victorian  period. 

The  only  foreign  opinion  which  we  heeded  was  that  of 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  205 

England,  and  we  showed  how  much  we  cared  about  it  by  our 
childish  sensitiveness  to  the  arrogant  and  ignorant  brutality 
which  disfigured  most  English  criticism.  The  colonial  atti- 
tude of  mind  was  displayed  as  clearly  by  the  deep  hatred  of 
England  which  most  Americans  felt  as  it  could  have  been 
by  the  most  servile  admiration. 

The  English  observers  of  changes  in  their  own  society 
note  many  alterations  which  are  common  to  American  society 
as  well,  but  in  the  United  States  forces  which  had  no  exist- 
ence in  England  have  been  at  work  and  have  resulted  in 
social  changes  far  more  sweeping  and  more  profound  than 
anywhere  else.  The  colonial  spirit  and  the  English  influ- 
ence have  alike  disappeared.  The  Civil  War  disposed  of  the 
one  finally,  and  destroyed  with  it  not  only  slavery  but  our 
crude  and  youthful  sensitiveness  to  criticism,  which  was  en- 
hanced, if  not  largely  created,  by  the  terrorized  silence  which 
slavery  imposed.  The  huge  increase  of  immigration,  draw- 
ing its  armies  no  longer  from  the  British  Isles  alone,  but 
from  all  Europe,  has  so  diluted  the  English  element  that 
it  is  no  longer  all-important.  Owing  to  our  immigrants 
and  to  the  vast  development  of  communication  and  trans- 
portation, the  United  States,  so  far  as  its  relations  to  other 
countries  are  concerned,  has  become  cosmopolitan.  I  do 
not  mean  by  this  that  we  have  ceased  to  have  character- 
istics of  our  own.  Far  from  it.  The  American  character- 
istics have  changed,  and  are  still  changing  from  those  which 
were  familiar  and  well-nigh  universal  when  I  was  a  boy,  but 
they  are  none  the  less  definite  and  are  growing  constantly 
more  marked.  The  American  of  to-day  is  cosmopolitan  in 
his  attitude  toward  other  countries,  but  he  is  more  than  ever 
strongly  American.  He  is  not  open  to  Wentworth  Higfin- 
son's  criticism  of  a  distinguished  citizen  of  the  United 
States  that  ato  be  really  cosmopolitan  a  man  must  feel 
at  home  even  in  his  own  country."  His  patriotism  cannot 


206  EARLY  MEMORIES 

be  more  intense  than  that  of  his  predecessor  in  the  days 
before  the  Civil  War,  but  it  is  more  uniform  and  more  con- 
tented. It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  is  capable  of 
reaching  the  lofty  heights  attained  in  the  war  for  the  Union; 
but  I  am  only  comparing  it  with  that  which  existed  before 
the  great  uprising  of  the  people  to  save  their  country. 
Seventy-five  years  ago  our  patriotism  was  restless,  uneasy, 
self-assertive  toward  the  rest  of  the  world,  while  at  home 
it  was  shadowed  by  the  dark  clouds  of  the  slavery  question 
and  was  suspicious  and  highly  localized.  The  United  States 
was  divided  by  slavery,  and  when  a  man's  patriotism  was 
aroused  it  followed  sectional  lines  and  did  not,  as  now, 
cover  with  impartial  affection  the  entire  country.  Improve- 
ment in  communications,  the  spread  of  railroads  and  tele- 
graphs, have  had  their  part  in  this  change  as  well  as  the 
sacrifices  of  the  Civil  War  which  wrought  it. 

It  is  to  steam  and  electricity,  also,  that  we  owe  the 
material  development  of  the  country,  which,  under  old  con- 
ditions, it  would  have  taken  as  many  centuries  almost  as  it 
has  years  to  bring  to  its  present  point  of  wealth  and  pros- 
perity. This  rapid  development  of  practically  unlimited 
natural  resources  has,  of  course,  brought  with  it  not  only 
general  prosperity,  but  huge  and  quickly  acquired  riches. 
Vast  fortunes,  of  course,  are  no  new  thing.  Poverty  and 
wealth  are  as  old  as  civilization.  The  money-maker,  the 
speculator,  and  the  financier  were  a  class  as  familiar  to 
ancient  Rome  as  they  are  at  this  moment  to  London  or 
New  York  or  Paris.  The  tax-gatherers,  the  courtiers,  the 
officials  of  Egypt,  the  Phoenicians  circling  the  Mediterranean 
and  stealing  down  the  African  and  up  the  European  coast, 
the  Greek  colonists  and  traders,  the  Athenian  merchants, 
the  mediaeval  bankers  of  Italy  and  Germany,  the  Venetian 
ship-owners,  the  manufacturers  of  the  Low  Countries,  the 
English  nabobs  of  the  East  and  West  Indies,  the  London 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  207 

0 

bankers,  were  not  essentially  unlike  the  millionaires  of  to-day. 

That  which  differentiates  our  own  time  is  the  rapidity  with 
which  wealth  has  been  amassed  and  the  size  of  the  fortunes 
which  have  been  gathered.  In  these  respects  mankind  has 
never  seen  their  like,  any  more  than  it  has  seen  railroads  and 
steamboats  and  electricity  or  the  thousand  inventions  by 
which  we  have  been  able  to  make  the  earth  in  a  few  months 
or  years  yield  up  its  riches  to  our  relentless  grasp  and  to 
seize  remorselessly  and  with  reckless  wastefulness  every  re- 
source which  is  offered  by  the  bounty  of  nature.  If  we  may 
believe  Macaulay,  Lars  Porsena  numbered  among  his  fol- 
lowers a  rich  mine-owner: 

"Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 
Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines." 

But  the  modern  mine-owner,  with  highly  paid  free  labor, 
is  able  to  extract  a  colossal  fortune  from  ore  which  Seius 
would  have  rejected  as  utterly  worthless.  Indeed,  until 
within  the  last  thirty  years  we  had  not  gone  far  beyond  the 
methods  of  mining  which  contributed  to  the  wealth  of  the 
Etruscan  king. 

In  the  United  States,  moreover,  the  change  has  not  only 
been  quicker,  but  the  contrast  with  what  had  gone  before 
is  much  more  violent  than  in  the  Old  World.  The  condi- 
tions of  the  Revolutionary  days,  when  foreign  observers  ad- 
mired us  because  they  found  here  neither  great  poverty  nor 
great  wealth,  neither  very  rich  nor  very  poor,  but  a  general 
equality  of  well-being,  had  passed  away  long  before  my 
memories  begin.  Yet  the  difference,  nevertheless,  between 
1850  and  1913  is  sufficiently  striking.  Some  years  ago,  in 
1880,  a  Boston  newspaper  published  a  list  of  the  principal 
taxpayers  of  Boston  in  the  year  1830,  giving  the  amount  of 
the  personal  property  upon  which  they  were  severally  as- 


208  EARLY  MEMORIES 

sessed.  By  far  the  richest  man  was  taxed  upon  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  There  was  no  one  else  who 
came  anywhere  near  this  amount.!  When  I  was  a  boy  a  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  was  considered  a  comfortable  property, 
and  the  very  rich  man,  with  wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice,  was  spoken  of  as  a  millionaire.  Now  three  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars  would  be  regarded,  in  fashionable 
society  at  least,  as  a  very  modest  provision;  a  hundred 
thousand  would  be  looked  upon  as  genteel  poverty;  and  to 
describe  adequately  a  really  rich  man,  we  are  forced  to 
"  multimillionaire, "  for  a  million  is  no  longer  great  wealth,  j 
These  simple  figures  imply,  of  course,  a  complete  and  uni- 
versal change  in  the  scale  of  living  and  a  corresponding  al- 
teration in  the  social  structure.  Society,  as  I  first  remember 
it,  was  based  on  the  old  families;  Doctor  Holmes  defines 
them  in  the  "Autocrat"  as  the  families  which  had  held  high 
position  in  the  colony,  the  province,  and  during  the  Revolu- 
tion and  the  early  decades  of  the  United  States.  They  repre- 
sented several  generations  of  education  and  standing  in  the 
community.  They  had  traditions  running  back  not  infre- 
quently to  the  first  white  settlement  and  the  days  of  Eliza- 
beth and  James.  They  had  ancestors  who  had  filled  the 
pulpits,  sat  upon  the  bench,  and  taken  part  in  the  govern- 
ment under  the  crown;  who  had  fought  in  the  Revolution, 
helped  to  make  the  State  and  national  constitutions  and 
served  in  the  army  or  navy;  who  had  been  members  of  the 
House  or  Senate  in  the  early  days  of  the  Republic,  and  who 
had  won  success  as  merchants,  manufacturers,  lawyers,  or 
men  of  letters.  In  many  places  people  of  this  sort  have  been 
pushed  out  of  sight,  if  not  actually  driven  against  the  con- 
ventional wall.  Unless  they  were  able  to  hold  on  to  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  money  or  to  add  to  their  inherited  fortune, 
they  have  been  swept  away.  The  persons  who  now  fill 
society,  as  depicted  in  the  depressing  phrases  and  strange 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  209 

language  considered  suitable  to  the  subject  by  the  daily 
press,  are  for  the  most  part  the  modern,  very  modern,  plu- 
tocrats who  are  widely  different  from  their  modest  prede- 
cessors of  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  my 
early  memory,  the  man  who,  rising  from  the  ranks,  had 
made  a  fortune  and  wished  to  establish  himself,  sought  en- 
trance to  the  society  of  the  old  families  and  hoped,  and 
sometimes  endeavored,  to  marry  his  children  among  them. 
To  the  modern  and  recent  plutocrat  the  old  American  family 
means  nothing.  He  knows  naught  of  the  history  or  tradi- 
tions of  his  State  and  country,  and  cares  less.  He  has  but 
one  standard,  money  or  money's  worth.  He  wants  his  chil- 
dren to  marry  money,  and  for  that  reason  he  prefers  the 
children  of  other  plutocrats,  no  matter  how  new,  or  he  will 
buy  a  European  title,  because  he  comprehends  that  the  title 
has  value  as  a  trade-mark  and  a  trade-mark  he  understands. 
Old  family,  whether  at  home  or  abroad,  no  matter  how  dis- 
tinguished, if  it  is  without  a  title,  is  meaningless  to  him. 
His  theory,  which  he  has  every  reason  to  believe  to  be  sound, 
is  that  if  he  has  enough  money  he  can  have  everything  he 
desires,  and  that  his  money  will  open  to  him  all  the  social 
doors,  not  only  in  America,  but  in  Europe,  and  that  there 
is  no  court  of  the  Old  World  which  will  not  welcome  him,  no 
royal  personage  who  will  not  receive  him,  if  he  only  has 
money  enough.  Did  not  Mr.  George  Bernard  Shaw,  for 
once  abandoning  the  tiresome  paradox,  say  that  when  Mr. 
Carnegie  landed  in  the  British  Isles  all  England  was  one 
universal  cringe,  and  has  any  one  had  the  hardihood  to 
contradict  him? 

"Novi  homines,"  as  the  name  imports,  are  no  new  thing 
under  the  sun.  We  should  indeed  fare  ill  if  it  were  not  for  the 
men  who,  starting  with  nothing,  make  their  own  way  to  the 
top.  They  have  always  been  a  powerful  class  in  every  civili- 
zation of  which  we  have  knowledge;  and  in  this  class,  as  in 


210  EARLY  MEMORIES 

every  other,  the  members  vary  among  themselves,  from 
those  who  wear,  as  if  born  to  it,  the  purple  they  have  at- 
tained, to  those  who  can  only  realize  and  understand  mere 
money  and  who  are  the  exponents  of  that  vulgarity  which 
is  typical  of  their  class,  and  which,  indeed,  they  come  very 
near  monopolizing.  So  I  am  far  from  suggesting  that  the 
newly  rich  man  is  a  modern  phenomenon.  He  is  as  old  as 
commercial  civilization.  What  I  would  point  out  is  merely 
that  he  is  more  portentous  than  fifty  years  ago  or,  indeed, 
than  at  any  period  of  which  we  have  record.  The  great  in- 
ventions of  the  nineteenth  century  have  so  quickened  every- 
thing that  the  plutocrat  is  richer  than  ever  before  and  of 
larger  and  much  more  rapid  growth.  The  pace  has  been  so 
accelerated  that  families  which  were  just  struggling  into 
position  when  I  was  young  are  now  regarded  as  ancient  and 
long  established,  so  fast  and  in  such  numbers  have  the 
creations  of  the  last  twenty  years  crowded  upon  their  heels. 
These  newcomers  have  absorbed,  in  fact  they  are  in  large 
measure  the  fons  et  origo  of  the  society  columns  of  the  news- 
papers, which  they  fill  with  their  performances,  with  their 
entertainments,  their  expenditures,  their  marriages,  their 
divorces,  and  their  scandals.  The  world  at  large  which 
reads  those  delectable  columns  believes  that  this  is  what 
constitutes  fashionable  society,  and  is  probably  quite  right 
in  so  thinking.  Whether  it  is  what  used  to  be  technically 
called  in  an  elder  day  "good"  society  is  another  question. 
These  same  people  have  also  taken  complete  possession  of 
the  fashionable  world  itself  in  some  places,  and  they  are 
flagrant  and  not  to  be  overlooked  anywhere,  either  here  or 
in  Europe. 

In  force,  in  insistence,  in  self-assertion  and  pretence,  they 
do  not,  I  imagine,  differ  widely  from  their  prototypes  dimly 
seen  in  the  receding  vistas.  But  they  are  much  more  numer- 
ous and  much  richer  than  their  earlier  predecessors.  There 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  211 

are  two  facts  about  them  which  seem  to  me  to  be  new, 
although  I  venture  the  assertion  of  novelty  with  much 
diffidence.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  children,  the  second 
generation,  who  come  suddenly  to  the  enjoyment  of  wealth 
which  they  have  not  earned,  and  who  have  no  restraining 
habits  or  traditions,  are  in  a  surprisingly  large  proportion 
failures;  sometimes  degenerates  who  end  in  an  early  wreck. 
The  girls  do  better,  perhaps,  than  the  boys,  although  the 
story  of  their  marriages  and  divorces,  both  foreign  and 
domestic,  does  not  furnish  an  exhilarating  subject  either  for 
contemplation  or  study. 

The  other  fact  in  regard  to  them  which  seems  to  me  ob- 
vious is  their  lawlessness,  their  disregard  of  the  rights  of 
others,  especially  of  others  about  whom  they  are  not  in- 
formed, and  as  they  know  only  money,  their  information  is 
limited.  I  do  not  mean  by  this  to  say  merely  that  they 
are  arrogant;  that  is  an  old  characteristic  of  the  type.  I 
use  the  word  "lawless"  in  its  exact  sense.  They  pay  no 
regard  to  the  laws  of  the  land  or  the  laws  and  customs  of 
society  if  the  laws  are  in  their  way.  They  seem  to  think 
that  money  warrants  everything  and  can  pay  for  everything, 
and  that  nothing  must  be  allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
what  money  wants.  The  maker  of  the  sudden  fortune  may 
have  disregarded  written  statutes  and  the  unwritten  laws 
of  honor,  but  he  did  it  consciously,  certainly  with  full  knowl- 
edge in  the  case  of  the  statutes.  His  children,  however,  do 
it  all  unconsciously,  so  far  as  my  observation  goes,  which 
means  that  they  think  themselves  born  to  a  position  above 
the  laws.  There  have  been  classes  of  people  before  who 
have  taken  this  same  view  of  their  position,  although  on 
different  and  less  ignoble  grounds.  But  the  result  in  modern 
times  has  been  the  same.  When  the  people  at  large  who 
had  to  obey  the  laws  finally  rose,  the  end  was  ruin  to  the 
lawless,  and  sometimes  the  guillotine.  This  process  of 


212  EARLY  MEMORIES 

reformation  is  expensive,  and  even  the  most  confirmed  opti- 
mist may  therefore  regard  the  gigantic  modern  plutocracy 
and  its  lawless  ways  with  some  uneasiness.  I  am  not  a 
"laudator  temporis  acti."  I  shun  the  role.  I  do  not  say 
that  the  modern  plutocrat  is  worse  than  the  plutocrat  of 
other  times  and  other  lands,  but  I  say  decidedly  that  he  is 
different  and  that  he  merits  observation. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  expansion  of  fortunes  and  this 
rise  in  the  power  of  money  are  not  confined  in  their  effects  to 
those  who  seem  to  have  profited  most  largely  by  them.  We 
can  see  the  same  tendency  in  almost  every  political  issue  that 
is  raised,  for  they  nearly  all  turn  on  giving  some  class  of  peo- 
ple more  money.  The  underlying  proposition  of  most  of  the 
agitation  now  going-  forward  is  to  take  money  by  means  of 
legislation,  through  government  action,  from  those  who  have 
it,  either  by  earning  it  or  by  inheritance,  and  give  it  to 
those  who  have  not  earned  it,  and  especially  to  those  who 
are  unable  or  unwilling  to  earn  it.  The  old  spirit  of  indi- 
vidualism, which  has  carried  the  United  States  forward  to 
its  extraordinary  material  success,  is  decried  as  almost  purely 
evil,  to  be  curbed  if  not  wholly  extinguished.  Success  of 
any  sort,  no  matter  how  honest  and  honorable,  especially  if 
it  brings  a  pecuniary  reward,  is  not  only  no  longer  admired, 
as  it  used  to  be,  but  has  become  a  danger  rather  than  a  prize 
for  which  men  should  strive.  To  labor  in  any  way  appears 
to  be  considered  as  a  misfortune  in  itself,  which,  if  inevitable, 
must  be  mitigated  so  far  as  possible,  the  principal  mitigation 
proposed  being  an  effort  to  prevent  those  who  work  hardest 
and  best  from  gaining  any  greater  reward  than  those  who 
work  least  and  most  ineffectively.  Special  privileges  which 
are  said  to  have  existed  for  the  benefit  of  the  rich  and  suc- 
cessful seem  to  be  on  the  way  not  to  extinction,  but  to  trans- 
ference, which  looks  like  a  doubtful  solution  if  we  admit, 
what  has  always  been  assumed,  that  special  privileges,  no 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  213 

matter  who  enjoys  them;  are  in  themselves  a  bad  thing. 
The  "carriere  ouverte  aux  talens,"  which  was  a  watchword 
of  the  French  Revolution,  the  equality  of  opportunity  so 
unlimited  in  the  United  States,  which  Lincoln  lauded  as  one 
of  the  glories  of  his  country,  were  the  unquestioned  truisms 
of  my  youth.  Now  the  talents  which  profit  by  the  open 
career  seem  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion,  and  as  prima- 
facie  evidence  of  wrong-doing.  Instead  of  seeking  to  as- 
sure equality  of  opportunity,  the  theory,  whether  openly 
expressed  or  not,  appears  now  to  be  that  without  regard  to 
merit  there  must  be  equality  of  result,  a  widely  different 
proposition,  far  more  difficult  of  attainment,  and  certain  to 
end  in  a  kind  of  injustice  that  would  act  as  a  powerful  dis- 
solvent upon  the  social  structure,  and  even  upon  civiliza- 
tion itself. 

Mr.  Debs,  when  he  accepted  his  nomination  for  the 
Presidency,  said: 

"Capitalism  is  rushing  blindly  to  its  impending  doom. 
All  the  signs  portend  the  inevitable  breakdown  of  the  exist- 
ing order.  Deep-seated  discontent  has  seized  upon  the 
masses.  Poverty,  high  prices,  unemployment,  child  slavery, 
wide-spread  misery  and  haggard  want  in  a  land  bursting 
with  abundance;  prostitution  and  insanity,  suicide  and 
crime;  these  in  solemn  numbers  tell  the  tragic  story  of  cap- 
italism's saturnalia  of  blood  and  tears  and  shame  as  its 
end  draws  near." 

Mr.  Debs's  violence  of  language  is  only  equalled  by  his 
looseness  of  thought  and  expression.  Yet  there  are  large 
lasses  of  people  who  would  not  think  of  supporting  Mr. 
>ebs  but  who,  none  the  less,  hold  more  or  less  vaguely  the 

ie  view  that  there  are  many  evils  in  the  world,  that  the 
existing  order  is  to  blame  for  them,  and  that  if  we  get  rid 
)f  the  existing  order  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  evils  too,  and  enter 
ipon  a  millennium,  presided  over  and  guided  by  Mr.  Debs 


214  EARLY  MEMORIES 

or  some  equally  judicious,  gifted,  and  disinterested  person. 
Mr.  Debs  calls  the  " existing  order"  capitalism,  which  is  a 
name  of  no  exact  significance  but  well  calculated  to  ex- 
cite prejudice.  Persons  less  righteous  and  more  lukewarm 
might  describe  the  "existing  order"  as  a  commercial  and 
industrial  civilization  in  contradistinction  to  those  in  which 
the  dominant  impulse  was  religious  or  military.  But  the 
name  is  of  no  consequence.  The  "existing  order"  is  the 
only  one  we  have,  and  when  it  is  swept  away  the  civiliza- 
tion dependent  upon  it  goes  with  it.  Even  at  the  risk  of 
denunciation  as  a  reactionary  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  this 
is  a  serious  step.  The  last  great  civilization  which  has  been 
overthrown  went  down  with  the  Roman  Empire.  The  evils 
of  the  empire  were  obvious  enough,  but  its  fall  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  followed  by  any  very  immediate  improve- 
ment in  human  conditions,  so  grave  an  undertaking  was  it 
to  wreck  and  replace  a  great  civilization.  If  it  were  per- 
fectly clear  that  poverty,  prostitution,  suicide,  crime,  and 
the  rest  of  the  dreadful  evils  which  Mr.  Debs  enumerates 
were  due  to  the  "existing  order,"  there  could  be  no  doubt 
as  to  our  duty.  But  it  was  said  nearly  two  thousand  years 
ago  by  the  Saviour  of  mankind:  "The  poor  always  ye  have 
with  you,"  and  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  "blood  and 
tears"  and  suicide  and  insanity  and  crime  and  prostitution 
have  existed  under  every  government  and  every  civilization 
of  which  there  is  record.  It  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to 
suggest  to  those  who  think  the  present  order  has  failed  that 
the  only  way  to  judge  it  justly  is  to  determine  whether  these 
evils  and  wrongs  are  greater  or  less,  increasing  or  diminish- 
ing, under  the  present  system  as  compared  with  its  prede- 
cessors. In  my  youth  it  was  believed  that  these  evils  were 
constantly  being  lessened,  that  the  whole  movement  of 
society  was  directed  toward  their  extinction  so  far  as  ex- 
tinction was  possible,  and  that  this  was  the  peculiar  mark 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  215 

and  glory  of  our  civilization.  It  is  now  widely  held,  and  not 
by  Mr.  Debs  and  his  followers  alone,  that  the  fault  is  in- 
herent in  our  civilization  itself,  which  is  making  human 
conditions  worse  instead  of  better  than  they  have  ever  been, 
and  that  therefore  the  only  way  to  improvement  is  by  pull- 
ing to  pieces  and  destroying  the  existing  order.  This  is 
not  the  place  to  argue  the  question  if  it  be  arguable  from 
the  lukewarm  point  of  view.  I  merely  would  point  out  the 
enormous  contrast  between  the  sanguine  mental  attitude 
prevalent  in  my  youth  and  that,  perhaps  wiser,  but  certainly 
darker  view,  so  general  to-day.  Let  me  put  the  thoughts 
and  beliefs  in  which  I  was  brought  up,  and  which  per- 
vaded the  world  in  which  I  grew  to  manhood,  in  the 
words  of  another — better  words  than  I  or  any  one  else 
could  find: 

"The  most  notable  feature  of  a  disturbance  in  your  city 
last  summer  was  the  hanging  of  some  working  people  by 
other  working  people.  It  should  never  be  so.  The  strongest 
bond  of  human  sympathy,  outside  of  the  family  relation, 
should  be  one  uniting  all  working  people,  of  all  nations  and 
tongues  and  kindreds.  Nor  should  this  lead  to  a  war  upon 
property  or  the  owners  of  property.  Property  is  the  fruit 
of  labor,  property  \p  desirable,  is  a  positive  good  to  the 
world.  That  some  should  be  rich  shows  that  others  may 
become  rich,  and  hence,  is  just  encouragement  to  industry 
and  enterprise.  Let  not  him  who  is  houseless  pull  down  the 
house  of  another,  but  let  him  labor  diligently  and  build  one 
for  himself,  thus  by  example  assuring  that  his  own  shall  be 
safe  from  violence  when  built." 

Any  one  who  spoke  in  this  wise  to-day  would  be  de- 
scribed in  many  quarters  as  a  "reactionary,"  probably  as  a 
"fossilized  reactionary,"  and,  in  the  current,  cant  language, 
as  a  friend  of  "the  special  interests"  and  of  the  "money- 
power."  Yet  those  are  the  words  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in 


216  EARLY  MEMORIES 

1864,1  speaking  to  a  deputation  of  a  working-man's  associa- 
tion— of  Abraham  Lincoln,  a  man  of  the  people,  a  servant  of 
the  people,  to  whom  he  gave  himself  both  in  his  life  and  in 
his  death.  We  have  been  moving  away  rapidly  of  late  from 
such  doctrines  as  these,  and  if  it  be  assumed  that  all  move- 
ment is  good,  merely  as  movement,  without  regard  to  its 
direction,  we  must  have  made  great  advances,  if  advances 
are  measured  merely  by  distance.  Whether  the  progress 
is  toward  ultimate  perfection  is  another,  larger,  and  some- 
what disputed  question.  In  any  event,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  the  wide  departure  from  the  principles  set  forth 
by  Lincoln  which  we  are  now  urged  to  make. 

I  have  no  criticisms  to  offer,  still  less  do  I  desire  to  say 
whether  the  new  beliefs  are  better  or  worse  than  the  old. 
But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  difference  and  the  con- 
trast between  them  exist,  and  that  the  faiths  of  my  youth, 
then  universally  held,  are  now  in  many  quarters  not  only 
denounced,  but  cast  aside  as  only  fit  for  the  dust  heaps  of 
history. 

Social  political  changes,  then,  in  the  United  States  during 
the  past  fifty  years  have  been  obviously  much  more  marked, 
much  more  rapid,  than  in  the  Old  World.  They  are  as  ob- 
vious also  in  the  superficial  habits  of  life  as  in  the  funda- 
mental principles  upon  which  American  democracy  and  free 
government  have  hitherto  securely  rested.  The  fact  that  we 
were  a  young  and  swiftly  growing  people  made  this  greater 
rapidity,  one  might  almost  say  this  violence  of  change,  in- 
evitable. Yet  it  is  curious,  as  I  have  already  remarked, 
how  similar  the  alterations  have  been  along  many  lines  in 
England  and  in  America,  if  we  may  trust  to  such  good  ob- 
servers as  Mr.  George  Russell  and  Sir  Algernon  West. 
They  both,  for  example,  comment  upon  the  adoption  of 
money  and  disease  as  subjects  for  general,  and  especially  for 

1Nicolay  and  Hay's  "Abraham  Lincoln:    A  History/'  vol.  IX,  p.  61. 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  217 

dinner-table,  conversation.  I  was  taught  in  my  youth,  and 
very  vigorously  taught,  that  it  was  not  good  manners  to 
discuss  physical  ailments  in  general  society,  and  that  it  was 
the  height  of  vulgarity  to  refer  to  money  or  to  what  any- 
thing cost,  whether  in  your  own  case  or  in  that  of  other  peo- 
ple. I  now  hear  surgical  operations,  physical  functions, 
disease  and  its  remedies,  freely  and  fully  discussed  at  dinner 
and  on  all  other  occasions  by  the  ingenuous  youth  of  both 
sexes.  Money  is  no  longer  under  a  taboo.  One's  own 
money  and  that  of  one's  neighbors  is  largely  talked  about, 
and  the  cost  of  everything  or  anything  recurs  as  often  in 
polite  conversation  as  in  a  tariff  debate.  Again  I  am  not 
concerned  to  decide  which  is  the  better  fashion,  the  old  or 
the  new.  I  merely  note  the  difference. 

The  world  of  Boston,  when  I  opened  my  eyes  upon  it, 
was  a  very  small  and  simple  world  as  I  look  back  at  it  now 
in  the  glare  and  noise  of  the  twentieth  century.  There  was 
an  abundance  of  gayety,  but  expenditures  were  small. 
Everybody  knew  everybody  else  and  all  about  everybody 
else's  family.  Most  people  were  related,  for  in  the  small 
colonial  communities  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  estab- 
lished families  had  intermarried  in  a  manner  most  bewilder- 
ing even  to  the  trained  genealogist.  Yet  the  extreme  famili- 
arity and  ease  of  intercourse  which  I  now  observe  among 
young  men  and  young  women  entirely  unrelated  did  not  then 
exist.  However  intimate  people  might  be,  a  certain  formal- 
ity of  address  was  thought  to  be  demanded  by  good  manners. 
It  was  firmly  believed  that  the  observance  of  these  conven- 
tions was  necessary  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  polite  society 
as  well  as  self-respect  and  respect  for  others.  In  that  old 
time,  which  is  really  not  so  very  old  or  so  very  distant,  but 
which  seems  to  grow  more  and  more  unreal  as  I  try  to  re- 
produce it  before  the  surprised  stare  of  the  exemplars  of 
modern  habits  and  standards,  it  was  an  accepted  tenet  that 


218  EARLY  MEMORIES 

children  not  only  ought  to  honor  their  father  and  mother, 
but  that  they  owed  them  a  great  debt  and  were  bound  to 
respect  them,  to  help  them,  to  sympathize  with  them,  and, 
if  need  were,  to  care  for  them.  This  theory  has  now  been 
almost  reversed.  The  present  view  seems  to  be  that  par- 
ents owe  an  unlimited  debt  to  children  because  they  brought 
them  into  the  world,  and  are  bound  to  defer  to  them  in  all 
possible  ways,  one  reason,  perhaps,  among  many  more 
potent,  for  the  decline  in  the  size  of  families.  Again  I  do 
not  offer  any  opinion  as  to  the  respective  merits  of  the  two 
systems.  I  will  only  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  my  own  gen- 
eration, owing  to  this  change,  has  found  itself  in  the  subor- 
dinate and  reverential  attitude  both  at  the  beginning  and 
at  the  end  of  life,  both  as  child  and  as  parent. 

The  rapidity  of  fortune-making  is  but  one  form  of  the 
increased  and  increasing  swiftness  which  marks  to-day  every 
kind  of  occupation,  whether  useful  or  otherwise,  as  well  as 
every  function  of  daily  life.  To  all  societies  it  has  brought 
haste  in  living,  and  incessant  movement  seems  to  be  the  key- 
note of  existence.  The  leisure  class  rush  uneasily  from  one 
amusement  to  another,  the  busy  transact  business  and  push 
forward  their  affairs  with  feverish  and  often  breakneck 
speed.  That  repose  which  our  ancestors  so  prized  and  which 
they  thought  comported  best  with  dignity  of  life  and  man- 
ners has  departed.  Quiet  and  repose  would  now  be  consid- 
ered stupid  and  dreary,  while  contentment  is  looked  upon  as 
the  sign  of  a  poor,  unaspiring  soul.  It  might  be  urged  that 
repose  of  manner  and  contentment  of  spirit  have  not  been 
found  incompatible  with  high  achievements,  with  daring 
deeds,  or  with  noble  aspirations.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
this  suggestion  would  fall  now  upon  deaf  ears.  The  point 
seems,  perhaps,  not  worth  pressing,  yet  the  restlessness  and 
hurry  so  prevalent  and  so  beloved  to-day  have  produced 
certain  far-reaching  results  which  affect  profoundly  every 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  219 

activity  of  life  and  thought,  and  thereby  the  very  nature 
of  our  civilization.  I  can  best  express  what  I  mean  by 
saying  that  we  are  now  in  such  a  hurry  that  form  is  being 
abandoned,  that  it  has,  indeed,  been  very  largely  given  up. 
This  may  seem  at  the  first  glance  an  unimportant  matter, 
but  it  is  really  most  serious  when  it  is  carefully  considered, 
for  form  has  always  been  one  of  the  essential  qualities  of  all 
the  best  work  which,  in  the  last  analysis,  has  been  the  justi- 
fication and  the  fine  flower  of  a  high  civilization.  It  is  form 
which  has  preserved  for  humanity,  and  given  life  and  savor 
to,  all  that  mankind  has  cherished  most  as  it  has  passed 
along  its  toilsome  road,  choked  with  the  dust  of  material 
strife,  deafened  by  the  din,  and  broken  and  wounded  by  the 
blows  of  the  struggle  for  existence  and  by  the  shocks  of  wars 
and  revolutions. 

Let  me  take  a  familiar  instance.  It  is  a  commonplace 
to  say  that  the  old  and  graceful  art  of  letter-writing  has 
well-nigh  vanished.  The  letters  of  the  seventeenth,  eight- 
eenth, and  early  nineteenth  centuries,  which  it  is  such  a 
delight  to  read  and  which  revive  for  us  the  life,  the  loves, 
the  hopes,  the  ambitions,  the  manners,  the  scandals,  the 
gossip,  the  thoughts  of  a  bygone  day,  are  no  longer  written. 
It  is  not  merely  that  the  telegraph,  the  telephone,  and  the 
typewriter  are  the  enemies  of  letter-writing.  These  might, 
no  doubt  these  inventions  must,  reduce  the  number  of  let- 
ters, but  that  is  no  reason  why  those  letters  which  are 
written  should  for  the  most  part  be  dry,  condensed,  and  un- 
graceful, and  fall  as  dead  as  a  withered  leaf  as  soon  as  they 
have  been  read.  The  fact  is  that  it  requires  time  to  write 
a  good  letter,  one  worthy  of  preservation  for  some  reason 
other  than  business  or  historical  purposes.  A  really  good 
letter  should  have  style;  thought  should  be  expended  upon 
it,  and  it  should  be  carefully  framed  and  composed.  It 
ought  to  possess  both  form  and  substance;  and  if  it  is  easily 


220  EARLY  MEMORIES 

written,  that  is  the  result  of  training,  practice,  and  care. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  the  best  letter-writer  of  our  time, 
took  infinite  pains  even  with  a  note.  But  all  these  qualities 
consume  time,  and  we  have  in  these  days,  apparently,  no 
time  to  give  to  a  particular  letter  or  to  the  training  which  is 
needful  if  we  would  have  every  letter  a  good  one.  We  are 
restless  and  in  a  hurry,  and  therefore  we  abandon  any  at- 
tempt at  form  and  content  ourselves  with  what  will  do  well 
enough  for  the  moment.  Thus  it  comes  to  pass  that  the 
charming  art  of  the  letter-writer,  with  a  few  lonely  excep- 
tions, dies  out  from  among  us. 

In  sculpture  and  painting  we  see  the  same  tendency. 
Because  Rodin,  a  great  genius,  sees  fit  in  his  later  work  to 
leave  parts  uncut  or  merely  roughly  indicated,  a  herd  of 
imitators  who  are  not  geniuses  at  all  rush  forward  to  repro- 
duce the  master's  trick  or  oddity  or  mannerism,  which  he 
perhaps  makes  effective,  and  announce  in  shrill  tones  that 
the  very  art  which  above  all  others  depends  on  form  is  best 
expressed  by  formlessness.  We  call  the  same  thing  in  a 
Greek  statue  an  injury  from  time  or  bad  treatment.  In 
the  case  of  Michael  Angelo  we  say  with  regret  that  the 
statue  is  unfinished,  and  no  one  quarrels  with  the  correctness 
of  the  definition.  But  the  imitators  of  Rodin,  who  have 
never  proved  their  mastery  of  form  by  noble  works  like  the 
"Age  of  Bronze"  or  the  "St.  John"  or  "Le  Penseur,"  insist 
that  crude  marble,  amorphous  and  rough-hewn,  is  true 
sculpture.  The  fact  is  that  in  the  hands  of  the  imitators 
formlessness  is  only  a  convenient  way  of  saving  time  and 
avoiding  labor;  a  method  of  escaping  from  the  work  they 
cannot  do  and  which  demands  a  skill  and  a  talent  they 
do  not  possess. 

There  have  been  "impressionists"  here  and  there  who 
have  produced  beautiful  pictures.  But  the  crowd  who  have 
practised  impressionism,  still  more  those  who  revert  to  the 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  221 

drawing  of  childhood  or  of  prehistoric  man  and  call  them- 
selves " futurists"  or  " cubists"  or  some  other  meaningless 
name,  and  sing  the  praises  of  their  various  eccentricities  as 
the  only  true  form  of  art  in  painting,  are,  as  a  rule,  the  in- 
capables,  dominated  by  the  restlessness  and  hurry  of  the 
present  day.  They  proclaim  the  doctrine  that  the  vague, 
the  unfinished,  the  undrawn,  the  flat  surface,  and  the  child- 
ish lines  are  the  real  qualities  of  true  art.  This  theory, 
loudly  asserted,  is  merely  the  dust  that  is  raised  to  cover 
the  real  cause  of  all  these  movements,  which  is  to  give  to 
those  of  inferior  talent  an  opportunity  and  a  reason  for  bad 
work,  for  work  done  quickly  in  order  to  meet  the  clamorous 
haste  which  calls  aloud  to  them  on  every  corner  and  from 
every  housetop.  It  is  not  the  "call  of  the  wild"  which 
invites  them,  but  the  call  of  the  newspaper  head-line.  The 
head-line  is  what  they  want,  and  so  form  is  rejected.  Form 
requires  time  and  study  and  brings  no  head-line,  no  inter- 
viewer, no  sensation  in  its  train. 

In  writing,  style,  which  is  the  essence  of  form,  is  now 
quite  generally  neglected.  The  reason  is  obvious.  Style 
requires  infinite  pains,  and  taking  pains  means  time.  Why 
waste  it  when  the  main  object  is  to  pour  out  books  or  maga- 
zine articles,  and  swell  the  vast  flood  which  sweeps  under 
the  bridge  to  the  delectation  of  the  idle  crowd  looking  over 
the  railings,  and  in  a  day  has  rushed  on  to  the  ocean  of 
oblivion?  As  one  watches  the  turbid  torrent  pouring  by 
one  feels  less  disposed  to  jeer  at  the  old  Yankee  farmer  who, 
when  asked  to  subscribe  to  the  village  library,  replied:  "I 
don't  care  for  libraries.  Reading  rots  the  mind." 

The  writers  who  with  infinite  care  perfect  their  style  as 
Stevenson  did,  and  who  maintain  the  standards  of  the  great 
models  which  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  long  past,  de- 
light the  judicious  and  have  a  crescent  and  enduring  fame. 
But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  they  are  looked  upon  just  now  by 


222  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  great  mass  of  readers  as  dull  eccentricities,  and  the 
crowd  goes  on  contentedly  absorbing  day  by  day  the  printed 
word  from  the  most  obvious  sources  which  range  from  the 
vulgarisms  and  slovenliness  of  most  newspapers  to  the  loose, 
careless,  colorless,  formless  stories  and  articles  which  pad 
out,  together  with  advertisements  written  in  the  same  cheer- 
ful dialect,  the  pages  of  many  magazines.  The  world  is  in 
a  hurry,  the  writer  is  in  a  hurry — why  waste  time  over  style 
which  has  no  obvious  money  value?  Form  and  style,  be  it 
said  again,  require  time,  and  what  we  desire  are  new  articles 
and  new  stories  and  new  sensations  so  that  we  may  rush 
from  one  to  another.  We  do  not  seek  for  or  demand  work 
well  done,  work  which  rests  securely  on  the  slow  accretions 
of  civilization,  and  which  is  inspired  by  the  labors  of  the 
men  of  genius  who  have  added  to  the  intellectual  posses- 
sions of  mankind  and  then  gone  their  way  into  the  covering 
darkness. 

To  those  who  listen  with  attentive  ears  or  read  with 
careful  eyes  it  is  apparent  that  the  decline  in  outward  form, 
in  that  which  strikes  the  senses,  is  accompanied  by  a  similar 
and  growing  indifference  to  that  inner  form  which  is  wholly 
intellectual  in  its  appeal.  From  writing,  painting,  or  carv- 
ing in  a  formless  way  to  thinking  in  slovenly  fashion  is  but 
a  step.  Incoherence  of  expression  is  nearly  allied  to  in- 
coherence of  thought.  Deep  thought  may  lurk  under  an 
obscure  style  and  has  often  been  hidden  in  that  way,  but 
an  obscure  style  does  not  of  itself  mean  depth  of  thought, 
although  some  people  appear  to  think  so.  An  involved, 
diffuse  style  frequently  conceals  nothing  but  emptiness  and 
confusion.  Clearness  and  simplicity  are  entirely  compatible 
with  profound  and  original  thought,  but  to  those  who  are 
neither  profound  nor  original,  simplicity  and  clearness  are 
impossible,  because  they  relentlessly  expose  the  void  within. 
Under  cover  of  rambling  and  chaotic  sentences,  vague  brush 


RETROSPECT  AND  CONTRAST  223 

strokes,  or  shapeless  marble,  poverty  of  ideas  may  claim,  if 
it  does  not  really  produce,  an  effect.  It  may  lead  people  to 
mistake  eccentricity  for  originality.  It  may  startle  for  the 
moment,  and  that  seems  the  key-note  of  much  modern  work, 
which  imperatively  recalls  the  fat  boy  in  "Pickwick"  when 
he  frightens  old  Mrs.  Wardle  by  saying  to  her:  "I  want 
to  make  your  flesh  creep."  But  when  we  tear  aside  the 
veil  the  reality  is  disclosed,  and  we  find  only  too  often  that 
the  argument  is  as  formless  as  the  sentences  in  which  it  is 
dressed,  the  inner  thought  as  meaningless  and  amorphous 
as  its  shapeless  wrappings.  How  seldom,  comparatively 
speaking,  do  we  find  in  speech  or  book  the  argument  or 
thesis  in  proper  form,  rising  from  premise  to  conclusion  in 
ordered  sequence.  Disjecta  membra  are  flung  together,  but 
the  thought  as  a  whole  is  broken  and  disconnected.  To 
think  clearly  and  connectedly,  to  know  how  to  begin  at  the 
beginning  and  thence  carry  the  mind  of  the  reader  or  hearer 
smoothly  on  to  the  inevitable  conclusion,  is  a  great  art,  rare 
in  its  perfection,  but  in  a  reasonable  degree  not  uncommon 
in  the  past.  Now,  however,  it  is  becoming  more  and  more 
infrequent,  for  such  thinking  demands  painful  effort,  much 
training,  and  much  time.  Is  the  modern  rapidity  destined 
to  prove  altogether  fatal  to  connected  thinking  and  to  well- 
ordered  argument?  We  are  in  a  great  hurry,  we  are  ter- 
ribly afraid  of  being  bored,  the  philosophy  of  life  seems  to 
be  to  do  what  we  wish  to  do  at  the  moment,  provided  that 
we  know  what  our  wishes  and  desires  are.  We  seem  to  be 
far  removed  from  the  days  when  a  great  poet  could  put  the 
aspiration  of  a  generation  into  the  lines: 

"When  duty  whispers  low,  You  must! 
The  youth  replies,  I  can." 

I  do  not  say  that  the  old  attitude  was  the  best.  Perhaps 
the  modern  theory  is  the  better  of  the  two.  It  is  not  for 


224  EARLY  MEMORIES 

me  to  decide.  I  merely  note  the  striking  change.  Hitherto 
in  the  history  of  mankind  the  decline  of  a  civilization,  the 
break-up  of  a  great  social  and  political  system,  the  sinking 
into  ruin  of  a  nation  or  an  empire,  were  revealed  in  litera- 
ture and  art  by  the  devotion  to  mere  outward  form,  to 
over  refinement,  to  tricks  of  expression,  with  nothing  behind 
them.  At  such  periods  form  became  everything,  and  under 
the  elaborate  forms  no  substance  was  to  be  found.  When 
the  final  catastrophe  came  and  dexterity  of  manufacture 
vanished  there  was  nothing  left.  Formlessness  once  more, 
as  at  the  beginning,  reigned  in  expression,  and  there  was 
no  thought  to  express.  We  can  see  this  process  in  the  lat- 
ter days  of  Rome's  empire,  in  the  condition  of  Italy  after 
the  Reformation  there  had  failed  and  the  glories  of  the  Re- 
naissance had  faded.  It  was  from  these  conditions  that  men 
worked  upward,  rough  in  form  at  first  but  with  vigor  of 
thought  struggling  for  expression.  They  gradually  recov- 
ered the  standard  of  a  great  past  and  once  more  brought 
literature  and  the  arts  to  the  highest  levels  of  both  form  and 
substance.  We  do  not  show  the  symptom  of  decay  almost 
infallible  in  its  prophecy  and  which  is  unmistakable,  when 
form  is  everything  and  substance  nothing.  Our  situation 
is  quite  different.  The  tendency  now  is  to  abandon  outer 
form  and  then  to  be  content  with  formlessness  in  thought, 
because  we  are  too  hurried  to  spend  time  in  securing  the 
one  or  avoiding  the  other.  Are  we  going  to  bring  out  of  a 
chaos  created  by  ourselves  new  forms  and  a  new  order,  or 
are  we  deliberately  returning  to  the  twilight  which  precedes 
the  dawn,  determined  to  live  in  that  dim  zone  because  we 
have  not  time  to  spare  for  the  patient  labors,  for  the  care- 
ful establishment  of  standards  by  which,  and  by  which  alone, 
civilization,  carrying  arts  and  letters  and  thought  in  its 
train,  has  hitherto  emerged  after  many  conflicts  from  the 
bondage  of  barbarism? 


CHAPTER  X 
EUROPE  AGAIN:  1871-1872 

I  SHALL  not  give  any  account  of  our  journey  in  Europe, 
for  this  is  not  a  book  of  travels,  and  our  wanderings  were 
along  much-trodden  paths  and  among  familiar  places. 
When  my  mother  went  abroad  with  her  father  and  mother 
in  1837  they,  of  course,  posted  through  Europe  in  their  own 
carriage  and  followed  the  well-known  lines:  France,  the 
Rhine,  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  a  brief  visit  to  the  German 
capitals,  winding  up  before  their  return  with  a  journey 
through  England  and  Scotland.  When  my  mother  went 
again  to  Europe  in  1866,  taking  my  sister  and  me  with  her, 
although  railroads  in  the  interval  had  changed  the  entire 
character  of  travelling,  she  very  naturally  wished  to  revisit 
the  places  which  had  charmed  her  in  girlhood  and  to  renew 
the  memories  of  that  happy  time.  When,  again,  four  years 
later,  I  went  independently,  I  wished  that  my  wife  and  her 
sister  should  see  what  I  had  seen  before.  So  we  made  our 
way  to  London  after  landing  at  Southampton,  saw  the 
usual  sights  and  renewed  our  friendship  with  the  Russell 
Sturgises,  who,  as  always,  were  unwearied  in  their  kindness 
and  hospitality.  Mount  Felix,  alas,  was  a  thing  of  the  past, 
and  they  were  living  in  Carlton  House  Terrace,  but  they 
themselves  were  unchanged,  and  we  had  many  pleasant 
hours  with  them.  We  saw  sights  in  abundance,  but  few 
people,  for  we  were  not  of  an  age  to  crave  society  where 
everything  about  us  was  so  new  and  strange  and  interesting 

225 


226  EARLY  MEMORIES 

to  the  eager  eyes  of  youth.  Nevertheless,  under  maternal 
directions,  we  went  one  afternoon  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Story, 
who  was  staying  with  Mrs.  Benson,  then  living  in  a  very 
charming  house  in  the  Kensington  region.  The  visit  is 
made  memorable  to  me  by  the  fact  that  we  found  other 
callers  already  there,  Mrs.  Leslie  Stephen  and  her  sister 
Miss  Thackeray.  We  were  quite  unknown,  very  shy  I  think, 
and  we  certainly  felt  most  keenly  our  youthful  insignificance 
in  a  strange  house,  in  a  foreign  land,  but  it  interested  me 
profoundly  to  know  that  I  was  actually  face  to  face  with 
Thackeray's  daughters.  I  recall  nothing  that  they  said, 
but  I  remember  well  just  how  they  looked;  and  their  pres- 
ence seemed  to  bring  me  very  near  to  their  father,  whose 
books  I  had  read  while  I  was  in  college  and  for  whom,  both 
as  writer  and  man,  I  had  acquired  an  intense  admiration. 

From  London  we  crossed  to  the  Continent,  went  up  the 
Rhine,  and  so  on  to  Munich,  whence  we  made  our  way  to 
the  hills  in  order  to  see  the  Passion  play  at  Oberammergau. 
We  stayed  with  an  old  white-bearded  peasant  who  took  the 
part  of  one  of  the  high  priests,  and  the  whole  experience  was 
most  interesting.  The  play  was  then  given  only  once  in 
ten  years — fashion  had  but  just  begun  to  gather  round  it 
and  it  had  not  yet  become  sophisticated  and  conscious. 
The  old  simplicity  of  feeling  and  intention  was  still  present, 
and  one  felt  strongly  the  atmosphere  of  faith  and  the  devo- 
tion of  the  villagers.  It  was  an  extraordinary  performance: 
most  solemn,  most  impressive,  with  a  great  deal  of  fine  acting 
and  a  remarkable  sense  of  scenic  and  artistic  effect.  In 
that  quiet  country  the  old  faith  still  lingered  unimpaired, 
and  one  felt  distinctly  the  "tender  grace  of  a  day  that  was 
dead,"  stripped  of  all  the  evils  which  had  surrounded  it 
when  the  system  of  which  it  was  a  part  was  still  powerful 
and  flourishing.  From  the  hills  of  Bavaria  we  journeyed 
into  Switzerland,  and  as  the  summer  waned,  at  the  begin- 


EUROPE  AGAIN:  1871-1872  227 

ning  of  September,  we  betook  ourselves  to  Paris.  Although 
I  have  no  intention,  as  I  have  said,  of  rehearsing  our  sight- 
seeing and  our  little  adventures,  yet  I  must  pause  for  a 
moment  as  the  evening  of  our  arrival  at  Paris  comes  back 
to  me.  When  I  had  last  seen  the  most  beautiful  of  mod- 
ern cities,  the  empire  was  in  its  glory.  Now  the  empire 
had  vanished  and  war  and  rebellion  had  swept  across  the 
scene,  leaving  ruin  and  desolation  in  their  track.  Scarcely 
three  months  had  elapsed  since  the  Versailles  troops  had 
made  themselves  masters  of  the  city  after  a  week  of  savage 
street  fighting.  Every  effort  had  been  put  forth  to  repair 
the  well-nigh  incalculable  damage  inflicted  by  the  siege  and 
by  the  Commune,  but  it  was  impossible  to  progress  far  in 
two  months.  The  Tuileries  was  a  wreck  and  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  a  heap  of  untouched  ruins.  The  column  of  the  Place 
Vendome  was  down;  many  streets  were  still  torn  up;  even 
the  repaving  of  the  Rue  de  Kivoli  was  not  completed.  In 
other  streets  the  remnants  of  barricades  still  lingered,  and 
at  all  the  principal  corners  and  along  the  lines  of  the  fight- 
ing were  remnants  of  half-burned  houses,  while  on  every 
side  one  saw  the  mark  of  the  rifle-ball,  the  shell,  and  the 
obus.  The  Bois  de  Boulogne  was  a  treeless  plain  and  the 
palace  of  Saint-Cloud  had  perished.  The  signs  of  mourn- 
ing, both  national  and  personal,  were  painfully  visible. 

One  morning  I  saw  a  communard  arrested  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  and  carried  off,  screaming,  cursing,  and  fighting, 
by  four  sergents  de  ville,  who  handled  their  prisoner  with 
little  mercy,  for  they  gave  but  short  shrift  in  those  days  to 
any  one  who  was  even  suspected  of  connection  with  the 
Commune.  Doctor  Campbell,  a  leading  physician  of  Paris, 
whom  I  came  to  know  well  in  the  following  spring,  told  me 
of  two  little  incidents  which  illustrate  the  condition  of 
public  opinion  in  regard  to  the  members  of  the  Commune 
better  than  volumes  of  description.  Just  after  the  entry  of 


228  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  troops  he  was  passing  up  the  Rue  Royale,  when  he  saw 
an  officer  and  two  or  three  soldiers  dragging  along  a  prisoner 
whom  they  had  apparently  taken  red-handed  at  one  of  the 
barricades.  A  crowd  had  gathered  on  the  sidewalk,  and  as 
the  prisoner  came  by  a  woman  cried  out:  "Achevez  le!" 
The  officer  looked  around,  drew  his  sword,  gave  the  prisoner 
a  sweeping  blow  across  the  back  of  his  neck,  severing  the 
spine,  and  the  soldiers  pushed  the  body  into  the  gutter  and 
marched  on.  A  little  later,  the  upper  part  of  the  city  hav- 
ing been  cleared,  Doctor  Campbell  went  out  to  the  ceme- 
tery of  Montmartre  to  see  if  his  mother's  tomb  had  been 
injured  by  the  firing.  He  found  the  tomb  untouched,  but 
as  he  passed  around  behind  it  he  came  upon  over  three 
hundred  bodies  stretched  out  on  the  slope  side  by  side, 
lying  in  windrows  "as  the  mower  rakes  the  hay."  The 
soldiers  had  taken  these  communists  out  there,  stood  them 
up  in  a  row,  and  shot  them  down.  It  was  a  savage  time; 
much  worse,  I  imagine,  than  any  one  not  actually  present 
ever  realized. 

When  I  returned  to  Paris  the  following  spring  an  auction 
sale  of  some  of  the  effects  of  the  imperial  household  took 
place  in  an  upper  room  of  the  Louvre.  It  seemed  a  suitably 
mean  ending  for  a  government  which,  under  all  its  glitter, 
was  not  only  sordid  but  a  sham.  My  one  regret  is  that  I 
was  not  wise  enough  to  buy  more  than  I  did,  for  the  things 
sold,  chiefly  fine  china,  went  absurdly  cheap,  and  such  oppor- 
tunities arising  from  the  fall  of  empires  do  not  occur  often 
in  a  lifetime. 

But  in  that  September  of  1871  the  contrast  between  what 
I  remembered  and  what  I  saw  was  tragic  in  its  intensity, 
and  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me,  young  and  careless  as 
I  then  was.  It  was  not  merely  the  heaps  of  ruins  and  the 
destruction  of  monuments  and  noble  buildings  which  weighed 
one  down,  but  the  atmosphere  seemed  still  heavy  with  the 


EUROPE  AGAIN:   1871-1872  229 

terrible  storm  which  had  torn  its  way  over  Paris.  Even 
the  sufferings  of  the  siege  and  the  humiliations  of  the  con- 
queror's presence  seemed  effaced  for  the  moment  by  the 
horrors  of  the  Commune.  Paris  in  the  hands  of  the  mob 
had  tried  once  again  to  control  France  as  she  had  done  so 
often  before.  This  time  France  declined  to  be  controlled. 
France  had  marched  on  Paris,  taken  it,  put  down  the  revo- 
lution, and  restored  order.  It  was  said  that  thirty  thousand 
people  had  been  killed  in  the  fighting  which  resulted  in  the 
capture  of  the  capital.  It  was  a  fearful  slaughter,  but  it 
had  its  effect  and  was  not  without  its  compensation.  Paris 
has  not  attempted  since  then  to  take  possession  of  the  gov- 
ernment and  the  country.  As  Cotton  Mather  observed 
after  the  extermination  of  the  Pequots:  "And  the  land 
rested  for  forty  years." 

After  I  had  written  down  from  memory  the  impressions 
made  upon  me  by  Paris  in  1871,  I  came  across  those  re- 
corded at  the  moment.  Contemporary  description  gives 
some  details  which  memory  had  let  slip,  but  the  general 
impression  has  remained  curiously  unchanged  after  forty 
years,  and  shows  how  sharp  and  vivid  that  impression  was. 
The  letter  was  written  on  September  23,  1871,  and  runs 
as  follows: 

There  is  one  subject,  however,  which  interests  me  very  much 
and  which  would  interest  you,  too,  in  a  like  manner;  I  mean  the 
country  and  the  city  where  we  now  are,  the  recent  theatre  of  such 
vast  events  in  the  history  of  the  world.  When  we  first  entered 
France  everything  seemed  unchanged.  There  was  no  general 
gloom  that  we  could  perceive,  and  the  damages  to  bridges  and 
houses  were  being  quickly  effaced.  The  country,  as  you  know,  is 
very  fertile  and  looked  rich  and  smiling  with  its  load  of  grapes. 
In  fact,  we  were  beginning  to  feel  that  they  had  not  had  such  a 
very  hard  time  after  all.  But  our  feelings  soon  changed.  As 
the  train  stopped  at  Dijon,  a  large  town  half-way  between  the 
frontier  and  Paris,  as  you  are  aware,  the  first  sight  that  met  our 


230  EARLY  MEMORIES 

eyes  was  a  company  of  Prussian  soldiers,  bronzed  men  who  had 
been  fighting  hard,  and  their  dusty,  dark  uniforms  and  glittering 
helmets  presented  a  strange  appearance  although  a  most  noble 
one.  All  at  once  the  terrible  fact  seemed  to  burst  full  on  me, 
and  most  impressively.  Here  was  a  troop  of  foreigners  from  the 
cold  North,  speaking  another  language,  standing  on  French  soil, 
and  detailed  to  the  station  in  order  to  search  every  train  for  con- 
cealed arms  or  men.  And  most  thoroughly  was  it  done  by  two 
stout  fellows.  It  was  war,  terrible  war  in  very  fact,  with  the  con- 
querors showing  their  power  by  searching  a  French  train  on  French 
soil,  and  you  can  believe  that  there  was  no  lack  of  sullen,  gloomy 
Frenchmen  there.  But  impressive  as  all  this  was  to  us,  it  is  noth- 
ing to  Paris.  The  first  experience  was  the  harsh  evidence  of  hard, 
destructive  war,  but  of  a  manly,  stand-up  fight  between  two 
brave  nations.  But  Paris  looks  as  if  it  had  been  the  scene  of  a 
savage,  barbarian  massacre.  The  whole  mournful  tale  is  easily 
read  in  a  few  glances  at  the  things  around  us.  In  the  list  of  sights 
is  now  "Les  Ruines  de  Paris";  Paris,  the  handsomest  city  of  the 
civilized  world,  now  makes  money  by  showing  her  ruins.  On 
every  side  are  awful  ruins — from  my  window,  as  I  write  (we  were 
in  the  Hotel  Meurice),  I  can  see  the  total  wreck  of  the  Tuileries 
and  farther  on  is  the  like  utter  ruin  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  But 
besides  the  ruins  of  her  beautiful  public  buildings,  whole  blocks 
are  gone,  and  at  every  turn  in  the  street  the  remnants  of  stately 
houses  meet  your  eyes.  Whole  corners  are  shot  away,  and  almost 
every  house  bears  the  rents  of  bullets  or  the  jagged  seams  of  fresh 
cement,  showing  where  the  scars  are  but  just  healed.  It  is  folly 
to  say  Paris  is  but  little  changed,  as  many  of  our  people  have  said; 
it  is  terribly  changed;  not  only  the  buildings  are  in  ruins,  but  the 
people  seem  to  be.  The  shops  are  filled  with  inflammatory  books 
and  pictures  crammed  with  lies  about  the  Prussians,  and  every- 
body seems  ill  at  ease  and  restless.  As  far  as  papers  and  appear- 
ances tell — and  straws  show  the  wind,  especially  large  straws  like 
popular  books,  papers,  and  pictures — it  seems  to  me  that  the 
French  are  worse  than  ever,  and  that  all  they  cherish  is  not  the 
prosperity  of  their  country  but  a  wild  desire  for  revenge  and  mili- 
tary glory,  the  bane  and  poison  of  the  life  of  France.  My  friend 
Munroe  told  me  to-day,  what  I  had  inferred,  that  the  whole  fabric 
of  society  seemed  to  him  to  be  perfectly  dissolved  and  demorali- 
zation to  be  very  general.  Time  may  cure  it  all,  but  the  signs 


EUROPE  AGAIN:   1871-1872  231 

of  the  time  are  not  favorable,  to  say  the  least.  Another  change, 
and  one  I  do  not  like  to  see,  is  the  fancy  for  words,  mere  words. 
For  instance,  all  public  buildings  have  printed  on  them,  in  large, 
staring  letters: 

"REPUBLIQTJE  FRANCAISE. 
LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE." 

At  every  turn  this  meets  one,  and  it  must  afford  them  the  greatest 
satisfaction  from  the  number  of  times  in  all  places  it  is  written 
up,  with  much  stuff  like  it.  This  is  a  decidedly  pessimistic  view, 
I  know,  and  very  extreme,  as  is  natural  to  a  young  man,  of  course, 
but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  the  French  nation,  great  as  it  has 
been  and  can  be,  is  wanting  in  the  steadiness  and  strength  which 
make  a  nation,  and  no  amount  of  terrible  teaching  seems  to  supply 
those  qualities. 

The  reflections  in  this  letter  are  superficial  enough;  the 
prejudice  against  France  owing  to  her  attitude  during  our 
Civil  War;  then  still  so  near,  is  obvious;  and,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  young,  no  allowances  are  made.  Yet  the 
keenness  of  the  impression  of  a  great  country  and  a  noble 
city  in  the  hour  of  their  desolation  remains,  and  I  know  now 
what  I  did  not  understand  then,  that  it  was  all  due  to  the 
miserable  imperial  government  and  not  to  the  French  peo- 
ple, and  that  the  overwhelming  victory  of  Germany  was 
anything  but  an  unmixed  curse. 

From  Paris  we  went  to  Germany,  stopping  at  Cassel 
and  visiting  Wilhelmshohe,  where  Napoleon  III  had  been 
held  a  prisoner,  and  also  the  Rembrandts  in  the  galleries, 
much  better  worth  seeing  than  the  retreat  of  the  fallen  Em- 
peror, for  they  are  a  very  fine  and  comparatively  little- 
known  collection.  Thence  we  went  to  Dresden,  Berlin,  and 
Vienna,  on  to  Venice  and  the  cities  of  northern  Italy,  and 
so  southward  to  Rome,  where  we  passed  most  of  the  winter. 
Here  we  renewed  our  inherited  friendship  with  the  Storys, 
who  were,  as  always,  most  kind,  and  Mr.  Story  as  clever, 


232  EARLY  MEMORIES 

amusing,  and  charming  as  ever.  But  that  winter  in  Rome 
is  now  chiefly  memorable  to  me  on  account  of  an  influence 
which  then  came  into  my  life;  affected  me  much,  and  passed 
away  from  me  after  a  few  brief  months.  That  influence 
emanated  from  a  character  and  an  intelligence  which,  most 
untimely  lost,  have  always  seemed  to  me  so  unusual  as  to 
deserve  at  least  the  slight  commemoration  of  a  friend's 
recollection. 

Among  my  classmates  at  Harvard  was  a  man  named 
Michael  Henry  Simpson.  He  was  a  Bostonian  born  and 
bred,  but  it  so  happened  that  I  had  never  seen  him  until 
we  met  at  Cambridge.  His  father  was  a  rich  manufacturer 
and  well  known  in  the  business  world.  Simpson  stood  high 
in  scholarship  from  the  beginning,  but  two  years  passed 
before  the  other  boys  began  to  find  out  that  he  was  also  a 
"good  fellow";  two  things  which  in  youthful  philosophy 
are  apt  to  be  regarded  as  well-nigh  incompatible.  It  may 
be  said  in  behalf  of  the  boyish  philosophy  that  it  has  in  it 
an  element  of  truth.  The  hard  students  and  first  scholars, 
the  "digs,"  as  we  used  to  call  them,  do  not  as  a  rule  shine 
in  the  lighter  side  of  life.  The  combination  of  the  success- 
ful student,  the  pleasant  companion,  and  the  good  fellow  is 
not  very  common,  but  Simpson  was  one  of  these  exceptional 
men  and  united  all  these  qualities.  In  time  he  was  discov- 
ered, became  one  of  the  most  popular  men  in  the  class,  was 
elected  to  the  societies,  and  caused  us  all  to  wonder  at  the 
fact  that  we  had  not  found  him  out  before.  I  came  to  know 
him  well  in  the  theatricals  of  the  Hasty  Pudding  Society, 
where  we  acted  and  managed  together,  and  in  Henry  Adams's 
course  in  mediaeval  history,  which  appealed  strongly  to 
Simpson  as  it  did  to  me.  He  also  crossed  the  ocean  to  Eu- 
rope soon  after  my  departure  from  the  United  States,  and 
we  corresponded  and  discussed  our  experiences  in  foreign 
lands  with  youthful  energy.  I  was  very  fond  of  pictures 


EUROPE  AGAIN:   1871-1872  233 

and  statues,  and  knowing  little  about  them  I  set  myself  to 
learn,  if  it  were  possible,  something  in  regard  to  them  and 
of  the  history  of  art  as  well,  by  studying  the  galleries  and 
reading  all  the  books  I  could  procure  which  related  to  art 
or  to  architecture,  for  which  I  also  entertained  a  keen,  if 
ignorant,  admiration.  In  these  eccentricities  I  had  few 
sympathizing  friends  of  my  own  age,  and  I  was  charmed  to 
discover  that  Simpson  had  precisely  the  same  weaknesses. 
I  also  liked  to  see  sights,  if  only  to  make  sure  on  Doctor 
Johnson's  principle  that  I  did  not  care  to  see  them  again,  and 
here,  too,  I  found  that  Simpson,  differing  from  our  other 
young  friends,  who  frankly  found  sight-seeing  a  bore,  was 
at  one  with  me.  So  when  we  met  in  Rome  no  more  con- 
genial pair  of  companions  could  have  been  imagined.  We 
saw  everything  in  Rome  and  its  neighborhood,  and  all  with 
a  diligent  minuteness  which  left  traces  never  to  be  effaced. 
We  read  Suetonius  together  and  then  pored  over  the  busts 
of  the  Caesars  in  the  Capitoline  Museum.  We  wandered 
over  the  Campagna  and  among  the  ruins  of  Ostia  and  of 
Hadrian's  Villa;  then  we  went  together  to  Naples  and  to 
Psestum.  It  was  a  delightful  winter,  a  happy  time,  a  charm- 
ing companionship;  but  in  such  close  association  we  talked 
of  many  things  besides  pictures  and  statues,  ruins,  archi- 
tecture, and  history.  We  became  very  intimate,  and,  in 
the  blessed  fashion  of  youth,  opened  our  hearts  to  each 
other  and  talked  of  ourselves  without  the  dreadful  and  well- 
founded  suspicion,  which  is  brought  by  advancing  years, 
that  such  conversation  with  another  man  is  not,  as  a  rule, 
conversation  at  all,  but  something  to  be  shunned  as  the 
mark  of  the  egotist,  most  unbearable  of  bores  to  his  fellow 
beings.  In  this  way  I  came  in  contact  for  the  first  time 
with  a  young  man  of  my  own  age  who  had  done  some  think- 
ing for  himself  upon  various  matters  of  importance.  This 
was  an  exercise  in  which  up  to  that  time  I  had  never  in- 


234  EARLY  MEMORIES 

dulged.  I  was  a  Gallic  and  had  been  very  happy  and  con- 
tented in  that  careless  condition.  I  had  taken  the  world 
as  it  came  and  had  found  it  on  the  whole  a  very  pleasant 
world.  I  had  been  brought  up  in  a  family  holding  the  lib- 
eral tenets  of  Unitarianism,  and  about  those  tenets  I  had 
never  troubled  myself.  But  although  the  old  doctrines  of 
the  church  of  my  ancestors  had  been  abandoned;  the  hand 
of  the  Puritan  was  still  felt  even  among  the  Unitarians  of 
Boston  in  such  matters  as  churchgoing  and  Sunday  observ- 
ance. I  regarded  both  these  fixed  habits  as  necessary  in- 
terferences with  the  pleasures  of  life;  but  accepted  them  as 
part  of  the  established  order  to  be  shirked  when  possible 
and  dropped  when  I  should  become  my  own  master.  As  to 
what  I  should  do  with  my  life  or  in  my  life,  I  had  given  to 
that  somewhat  important  subject — important,  I  mean,  so 
far  as  I  was  concerned — no  attention  at  all.  I  was  not 
pressed  by  need  of  money.  I  had  everything  I  desired,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  goad  me  on  to  think  about  the  future. 
When  I  was  in  college  I  read  Macaulay  and  conceived  for 
him  an  intense  admiration;  his  force,  his  rhetoric,  his  sure 
confidence  in  his  own  judgment,  his  simplicity  of  thought, 
all  strike  a  boy  very  vividly.  He  did  not  seem  to  me  a 
great  or  in  the  true  sense  a  real  poet,  even  then,  and  so, 
quite  unconsciously,  I  passed  successfully  Matthew  Arnold's 
primary  test  of  poetical  judgment;  but  I  profoundly  admired 
Macaulay's  prose  writings  and  felt  that  his  career,  which  com- 
bined that  of  the  public  man  and  of  the  man  of  letters,  was 
the  most  enviable  which  could  be  imagined.  Later,  when 
I  came  to  Europe,  when  I  read  more  and  began  to  realize 
history  and  art,  I  also  began  to  cherish  some  vague  desires 
for  a  literary  life.  But  beyond  these  nebulous  fancies  I  had 
not  progressed.  Then  I  became  intimate  with  Simpson. 
In  him  I  found  a  man  brought  up  in  the  same  town  as  my- 
self, who  had  thought  much  upon  all  these  things  and  had 


EUROPE  AGAIN:   1871-1872  235 

reached  some  very  definite  conclusions,  starting  from  prem- 
ises to  which  I  was  wholly  a  stranger.  His  family  were 
strict  Congregationalists  of  the  old  New  England  type,  de- 
voted not  only  to  the  austere  forms  but  to  the  rigid  doc- 
trines of  the  Puritans.  They  were  of  the  people  who  locally 
were  called  "Orthodox/'  a  term  well  understood  in  the  days 
of  the  Unitarian  schism.  In  such  an  atmosphere  the  con- 
ception of  a  man's  duties  in  life  had  sunk  deep  into  the 
boy's  mind.  He  had  joined  the  church,  taught  in  the  Sun- 
day-school, and  accepted  the  stern  creed  of  Calvin.  Then 
he  began  to  think  about  religion  and  man's  place  in  the 
universe.  The  old  creed  dropped  away,  and  so  he  went  on 
until  he  found  that  he  could  no  longer  accept  the  dogmas  in 
which  he  had  been  bred,  and  was  content  to  call  himself  an 
agnostic.  All  this  he  had  kept  to  himself,  for  he  was  loath 
to  hurt  or  wound  those  whom  he  loved  unless  it  became 
absolutely  necessary,  and  he  told  me  that  he  had  never 
before  confided  to  any  one  the  bitterness  of  the  struggle 
through  which  he  had  passed  or  the  conclusions  he  had 
reached.  He  was  as  far  removed  as  possible  from  a  prig; 
he  seemed  to  the  world  simply  an  exceptionally  clever,  lively 
young  man  of  unusual  intelligence,  full  of  fun  and  humor 
and  of  the  joy  of  life.  His  serious  side  he  kept  to  himself. 
But  although  the  dogmas  had  vanished  and  the  unques- 
tioning belief  in  the  Bible  legends  had  crumbled  away  before 
a  clear,  uncompromising  reason  and  a  finely  honest  mind, 
the  inborn  and  strongly  inculcated  sense  of  duty  remained. 
He  saw  neither  intelligence  nor  pleasure  in  an  idle,  self- 
indulgent  life.  He  felt  very  deeply  that  there  were  certain 
duties  which  must  be  fulfilled,  and  that  the  more  fortunate 
a  man  was  in  his  circumstances  and  conditions  the  heavier 
the  responsibility  which  rested  upon  him.  He  had  no  de- 
sire for  more  money  and  no  love  for  business.  He  wished 
to  give  his  life  to  literature  and  public  service.  But  he 


236  EARLY  MEMORIES 

felt  also  that  he  owed  a  great  deal  to  his  father,  and  to 
gratify  him  he  intended  to  enter  at  once  into  business  and 
to  aid  in  carrying  on  the  important  industry  which  was  part 
of  his  inheritance.  He  meant  to  keep  on  with  his  reading 
and  studies,  in  the  hope  that  some  day  he  might  be  able  to 
turn  to  literature,  as  even  then  he  longed  to  do.  But  he 
also  felt  that  whether  his  work  was  in  literature  or  in  busi- 
ness he  owed  a  duty  to  his  country,  and  that  every  Ameri- 
can, especially  every  educated  American,  ought  to  take  part 
in  politics  and  make  himself  effectively  useful.  No  thought 
of  public  office  was  in  his  mind,  for  the  business  claimed  him, 
but  he  proposed  to  make  himself  felt  in  the  work  of  politics 
and  to  exercise  influence  and  power  for  what  he  believed  to 
be  right  and  in  behalf  of  the  Republican  party,  in  which  he 
had  been  bred  and  in  the  principles  of  which  he  had  entire 
faith. 

I  have  been  thus  minute  in  describing  the  thoughts  and 
opinions  of  Simpson,  not  merely  because  he  was  a  lovable 
man  and  a  dear  friend,  but  because  his  experience,  his  mental 
conflicts,  and  his  conclusions,  which  are  all  rare  at  that  age, 
made  a  profound  impression  upon  me  and  greatly  affected 
my  life  at  a  moment  when  I  was  drifting  vaguely  and  was 
very  susceptible  to  outside  influences.  All  this  considera- 
tion given  to  serious  things,  all  this  thought  about  man's 
place  in  the  universe,  about  the  undiscovered  future  and 
the  meaning  and  uses  of  life,  coming  from  a  man,  a  boy 
really,  of  my  own  age,  were  to  me  at  once  very  strange  and 
very  impressive.  Hitherto,  like  Mrs.  Quickly  in  her  con- 
solation to  Falstaff,  "I  had  hoped  there  was  no  need  to 
trouble  myself  with  any  such  thoughts  yet."  And  now 
here  by  my  side  was  a  man  of  my  own  age  who  had  troubled 
himself  much  with  these  thoughts  and  who  had  faced  them 
and  come  to  certain  conclusions  thereon.  It  made  a  deep 
and  lasting  impression  upon  me;  I,  too,  began  to  think  and 


EUROPE  AGAIN:  1871-1872  237 

try  to  reach  conclusions,  and  to  long  to  do  something  with 
my  opportunities.  A  life  of  unoccupied  leisure  no  longer 
attracted  me. 

So  the  pleasant  winter  wore  away  and  we  left  Simpson 
in  Rome  and  took  our  way  to  Paris.  Soon  after  our  arrival 
I  had  a  long  letter  from  him,  written  in  Florence.  We  were 
planning  a  little  journey  to  Spain  later  in  the  spring.  Then 
I  heard  that  he  was  ill.  It  was  malignant  typhoid,  and  in  a 
few  days  news  came  of  his  death.  The  blow  fell  heavily. 
He  had  become  so  much  to  me  that  I  could  hardly  realize 
that  I  should  see  him  no  more.  His  death  left  a  gap  in  my 
life  which  after  all  these  years  has  still  remained  unfilled. 

From  Paris  we  went  to  Belgium  and  then  to  Holland. 
We  found  the  Motleys  established  at  The  Hague  and  we 
saw  much  of  them.  I  remember  particularly  one  evening 
when  we  dined  with  them,  only  the  family  and  ourselves. 
We  were  just  in  the  longest  days  of  the  year,  and  although 
we  dined  late  it  was  still  daylight.  I  can  see  the  room  now 
as  we  sat  there  after  dinner  in  the  gathering  twilight  and 
listened  to  Mr.  Motley  as  he  talked,  with  the  eloquent  en- 
ergy of  which  he  was  so  capable,  about  the  treatment  he 
had  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Grant  administration.  He 
had  turned  for  relief  to  his  own  work  and  had  come  to  Hol- 
land to  complete  his  life  of  John  of  Barneveld.  It  was 
peculiarly  interesting  to  hear  him  describe  the  great  Dutch 
statesman  there  in  The  Hague  among  the  very  scenes  in 
which  he  had  won  his  triumphs  and  gone  to  his  death. 

After  our  little  journey  through  the  Low  Countries  we 
crossed  over  to  England,  and  I,  with  some  friends,  made  a 
tour  through  England  to  see  the  cathedral  towns,  and  then 
through  Scotland,  which,  owing  to  my  love  for  Scott  and 
the  Waverley  novels,  was  to  me  most  interesting  and  at  the 
same  time  seemed  strangely  familiar,  so  deeply  were  all  the 
scenes  imprinted  on  my  mind  by  what  I  had  read.  In 


238  EARLY  MEMORIES 

August  we  sailed  for  home,  and  reached  Boston  safely  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  month. 

After  Simpson's  death  I  turned  for  advice  and  help  as 
to  my  future  to  Henry  Adams,  to  whom  I  already  owed  so 
much  for  the  first  glimmering  of  real  education  that  I  had 
ever  received.  He  replied  at  once  with  a  kindness  and  an 
interest  which  I  shall  never  forget,  and  I  give  his  letter  here 
because  it  not  only  encouraged  me,  but  had  upon  me  at 
that  turning-point  of  my  life  a  profound  effect. 

CAMBRIDGE,  2  June,  1872. 

MY  DEAR  LODGE — 

Your  letter  of  May  6  arrived  safely  a  few  days  since  and  gave 
me  the  pleasant  sensation  of  thinking  that  I  may  after  all  have 
done  some  good  at  college;  if  you  ever  try  it,  you  will  know  how 
very  doubtful  a  teacher  feels  of  his  own  success  and  how  much  a 
bit  of  encouragement  does  for  him.  Poor  Simpson's  death,  too, 
seemed  utterly  disheartening.  What  is  the  use  of  training  up 
the  best  human  material  only  to  die  at  the  start! 

There  is  only  one  way  to  look  at  life  and  that  is  the  practical 
way.  Keep  clear  of  mere  sentiment  whenever  you  have  to  de- 
cide a  practical  question.  Sentiment  is  very  attractive  and  I 
like  it  as  well  as  most  people,  but  nothing  in  the  way  of  action  is 
worth  much  which  is  not  practically  sound. 

The  question  is  whether  the  historico-literary  line  is  practically 
worth  following;  not  whether  it  will  amuse  or  improve  you. 
Can  you  make  it  pay,  either  in  money,  reputation,  or  any  other 
solid  value? 

Now  if  you  will  think  for  a  moment  of  the  most  respectable 
and  respected  products  of  our  town  of  Boston,  I  think  you  will 
see  at  once  that  this  profession  does  pay.  No  one  has  done  better 
and  won  more  in  any  business  or  pursuit  than  has  been  acquired 
by  men  like  Prescott,  Motley,  Frank  Parkman,  Bancroft,  and  so 
on  in  historical  writing;  none  of  them  men  of  extraordinary  gifts, 
or  who  would  have  been  likely  to  do  very  much  in  the  world  if 
they  had  chosen  differently.  What  they  did  can  be  done  by  others. 

Further  there  is  a  great  opening  here  at  this  time.  Boston  is 
running  dry  of  literary  authorities.  Any  one  who  has  the  ability 


EUROPE  AGAIN:  1871-1872  239 

can  enthrone  himself  here  as  a  species  of  literary  lion  with  ease, 
for  there  is  no  rival  to  contest  the  throne.  With  it  comes  social 
dignity,  European  reputation  and  a  foreign  mission  to  close. 

To  do  it  requires  patient  study,  long  labor  and  perseverance 
that  knows  no  limit.  The  Germans  have  these  qualities  beyond 
all  other  races.  Learn  to  appreciate  and  to  use  the  German  his- 
torical method  and  your  style  can  be  elaborated  at  leisure.  I 
should  think  you  could  do  this  here. 

I  shall  be  in  London,  I  hope,  on  the  1st  of  August,  to  be  heard 
of  at  Barings.  If  we  are  there  together  we  will  have  a  dinner 
and  talk  it  over.  Remember  me  to  your  wife. 

Yrs  truly, 

HENRY  ADAMS. 

Encouraged  by  this  letter,  I  set  to  work  when  I  reached 
home  and  was  fairly  established  in  Boston.  I  had  no  definite 
plan;  no  taste,  no  aptitude,  no  mastering  passion  beckoned 
me  into  any  particular  path.  I  merely  desired  to  read  his- 
tory and  to  write,  if  I  could.  So  I  turned  to  the  early  law 
of  the  Germanic  tribes,  toward  which  my  studies  in  medi- 
aeval history  had  led  me,  as  the  foundation  of  the  legal  and 
political  history  of  the  English-speaking  people.  I  doubt  if 
I  could  have  selected  a  drier  subject.  I  certainly  could  not 
have  found  drier  reading  than  the  latest  and  most  authori- 
tative German  writers  of  that  day  upon  this  subject,  Sohm, 
Von  Maurer,  and  the  rest,  at  whose  books  I  toiled  faith- 
fully for  some  weary  months.  The  work  was  not  inspirit- 
ing, it  was  in  fact  inexpressibly  dreary,  and  I  passed  a  de- 
pressing winter  so  far  as  my  own  labors  were  concerned. 
I  seemed  to  be  going  nowhere  and  to  be  achieving  nothing. 
I  led  a  solitary  life,  except  for  my  immediate  family,  and 
I  found  it  a  doleful  business  struggling  with  the  laws  and 
customs  of  the  Germanic  tribes,  without  any  prospect,  so 
far  as  I  could  see,  of  either  reward  or  result.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  now  that  the  discipline  of  forcing  myself  to  work, 
when  I  did  not  need  to  work  at  all,  was  of  real  value  in 


240  EARLY  MEMORIES 

giving  me  control  of  such  faculties  as  I  possessed,  and  in 
enabling  me  to  apply  my  mind  to  any  subject  which  it  was 
necessary  for  me  to  understand,  no  matter  how  little  I  cared 
for  the  subject  itself. 

As  winter  was  fading  a  visit  to  Norfolk,  Virginia,  where 
Admiral  Davis  was  living  as  Commandant  of  the  Navy  Yard, 
made  a  most  helpful  break.  The  climate  was  a  pleasant 
change  from  Boston,  and  there  was  opportunity  for  exer- 
cise by  rowing  on  the  river  and  taking  long  walks.  I  threw 
aside  German  authors  and  Germanic  law,  and  read  all  the 
principal  Elizabethan  dramatists,  which  was  a  pure  delight. 
I  returned  to  Boston  sufficiently  refreshed  to  go  on  with 
my  apparently  pointless  studies,  and  so  the  spring  wore 
away  and  summer  came,  and  Nahant. 

Then  one  day  Henry  Adams,  who  had  recently  returned 
from  Europe,  appeared  at  luncheon;  and  afterwards,  as  I 
was  walking  down  with  him  to  take  the  wagon  for  Lynn,  he 
told  me  that  he  had  accepted  the  editorship  of  the  North 
American  Review  and  wished  me  to  be  his  assistant  editor. 
I  have  had  since  that  summer  morning  in  1873  my  share  of 
rewards  and  honors,  more,  very  likely,  than  I  have  deserved; 
but  nothing  has  ever  come  to  me  which  gave  me  such  joy 
as  that  offer  from  Henry  Adams.  I  know  the  exact  spot  on 
the  road  where  he  made  the  announcement  to  me,  and  I  can 
see  the  whole  familiar  scene  as  it  looked  upon  that  eventful 
day.  I  came  home,  my  heart  swelling  with  pride  and  with 
a  feeling  of  intense  relief,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  dark- 
ness in  which  I  had  been  groping  had  suddenly  lifted  and 
that  at  last  I  could  see  my  way  to  doing  something.  The 
North  American  Review,  then  a  quarterly,  old,  famous,  and 
respected,  appeared  to  me,  who  had  always  looked  at  its 
pages  with  distant  awe,  one  of  the  most  important  publica- 
tions in  the  world.  To  be  connected  with  it,  to  have  a 
chance  to  write  for  it,  was  a  dazzling  prospect  which  I  had 


EUROPE  AGAIN:   1871-1872  241 

never  dreamed  would  open  to  me  except  possibly  after  long 
years.  Now  I  was  to  be  one  of  its  editors.  I  trod  on  air 
as  I  walked,  and  the  whole  world  was  changed. 

In  tracing  my  own  very  unimportant  and  very  quiet 
life  during  the  first  year  after  my  return  from  Europe,  I 
have  not  paused  to  mention  one  really  terrible  event  of 
which  I  was  a  most  unwilling  spectator,  and  which  naturally 
made  upon  rne  a  very  profound  impression.  Early  in  No- 
vember, 1872,  soon  after  our  return  from  Nahant,  the  great 
Boston  fire  occurred.  I  heard  the  first  alarm  as  I  was  read- 
ing in  the  library  and  thought  nothing  of  it.  Then  came  the 
general  alarm  and  I  went  out.  I  had  always  felt  the  genial 
interest  and  more  or  less  active  pleasure  in  fires  which  is 
common  to  healthy  boys,  and  with  this  habitual  and  slightly 
excited  feeling  I  went  forth  that  evening.  I  have  never 
regarded  any  fire  in  a  city  since  then  with  anything  but  in- 
tense anxiety  and  real  alarm.  It  was  an  experience  which 
no  one  could  ever  forget,  and  the  frightful  devastation  of 
that  night  was  something  which  could  never  be  obliterated 
from  the  memories  of  those  who  saw  it.  After  leaving  my 
house  I  crossed  the  Common  and  walked  down  Summer 
Street.  The  fire  had  then  made  but  little  progress,  compara- 
tively speaking,  and  was  raging  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
street  just  in  the  neighborhood  where  I  was  born.  I  went 
from  point  to  point  and  watched  the  fire  spread,  which  it  did 
with  terrifying  rapidity.  I  saw  tall  buildings  catch  in  their 
roofs  like  huge  matches  and  blaze  up,  I  saw  walls  falling 
and  stone  crumbling  in  the  heat,  and  in  a  short  time  I  real- 
ized that  the  fire  was  far  beyond  control.  I  was  ready  and 
eager  to  do  anything  I  could,  and  there  were  plenty  of  will- 
ing volunteers,  but  unluckily  there  was  nothing  that  vol- 
unteers could  do  except  to  help  here  and  there  in  saving  the 
contents  of  threatened  buildings.  Long  after  midnight  I 
went  home  and  reported  what  was  happening.  I  could  not 


242  EARLY  MEMORIES 

sleep  and  sat  at  an  upper  window  for  a  little  while  watching 
the  sea  of  flames  rolling  by  in  great  billows  to  the  eastward. 
I  found  it  impossible  to  stay  where  I  was  even  though  I  was 
useless  elsewhere.  So  again  I  went  out  and  again  made  my 
way  down  Summer  Street.  When  the  tardy  dawn  came  at 
last  it  showed  the  ruin  that  had  been  wrought.  I  worked 
my  way  round  to  State  Street  and  to  the  office  of  Lee, 
Higginson  &  Co.,  where  the  safety  vaults  were  situated. 
Those  in  charge  wisely  refused,  as  I  remember,  to  allow 
any  one  to  enter  the  vaults  or  to  remove  anything.  From 
that  point  I  watched  the  final  struggle  with  the  fire.  We 
could  see  the  flames,  only  one  block  away,  through  the  old 
Chamber  of  Commerce  building  opposite,  and  it  looked  then 
as  if  State  Street  must  go.  But  the  area  of  the  fire  had  been 
gradually  narrowed  and  it  had  reached  its  limit.  There, 
just  before  it  touched  State  Street,  it  was  stayed.  The  blow 
to  the  city  was  a  heavy  one,  but  it  was  met  with  a  fine  cour- 
age and  had  no  lasting  effect.  Fortunately  the  pathway  of 
the  fire  had  not  lain  through  a  residence  quarter.  At  the 
point  of  origin  some  tenements  and  houses  of  the  poorer 
class  had  been  destroyed,  and  a  few  more  went  in  the  Fort 
Hill  region,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  space  swept  by  the  flames 
was  covered  with  business  blocks,  warehouses,  office  build- 
ings, and  the  like.  Nevertheless  many  poor  people  were 
rendered  homeless  and  had  lost  their  all  on  the  edge  of 
winter.  An  ample  fund  for  food,  clothing,  and  rent  was 
raised,  and  in  the  distribution  I  took  part,  finding  at  last 
for  the  time  being  something  useful  to  do.  The  supply  of 
all  these  necessaries  was  so  ample  that  I  think  a  good  many 
persons  found  themselves  much  better  off  and  more  warmly 
clothed  than  before  the  fire.  But  none  the  less  I  then  gained 
a  knowledge  of  how  a  part  of  the  world  lives  which  I  had 
never  possessed  before,  and  which  it  did  me  much  good  to 
learn,  The  distribution  of  aid  to  sufferers  by  the  fire  led 


EUROPE  AGAIN:   1871-1872  243 

me  to  undertake  district  visiting  for  the  Provident  Associa- 
tion, which  I  carried  on  for  two  years,  and  there,  in  the 
houses  and  rooms  of  the  very  poorest  people,  I  was  taught 
many  lessons  which  I  hope  have  not  been  wholly  unfruitful. 


CHAPTER  XI 
STARTING  IN  LIFE:  1873-1880 

AFTER  the  great  good  fortune  which  came  to  me  by  my 
selection  for  the  assistant  editorship  of  the  North  American 
Review,  I  had  no  further  reason  to  complain  of  lack  of  em- 
ployment. My  depression  departed.  I  no  longer  felt  that 
I  was  laboring  in  an  objectless,  purposeless  fashion.  In 
fact,  I  am  rather  surprised  as  I  look  back  at  the  many  inter- 
ests which  sprang  up  about  me  and  at  the  amount  of  work 
which,  for  better  or  worse,  I  managed  to  do.  But  work, 
after  all,  is  the  best  of  friends.  I  believe  that  it  is  one  secret 
of  health.  Without  it  one  can  never  enjoy  either  leisure  or 
a  vacation,  and  work,  free  from  anxiety,  is  always  a  tonic, 
and  in  some  of  the  darkest  hours  an  anodyne.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  it  ever  did  any  one  anything  but  good,  provided 
that  a  man  takes  plenty  of  exercise,  which  I  have  always 
done,  riding  at  all  seasons,  hunting  in  the  autumn,  and  in 
summer  living  in  or  on  the  water,  and  always  varying  my 
amusements  out-of-doors  by  much  walking  and  by  the  sim- 
ple labor  of  chopping  and  sawing  wood. 

My  duties  on  the  North  American  Review  began  at  once. 
I  read  manuscripts  and  proof  and  aided  Mr.  Adams  in  every 
way  in  preparing  each  number  for  the  press.  I  learned  much 
in  this  manner  from  my  chief's  instruction  as  to  methods 
of  criticism  and  also  as  to  style.  Very  early  in  my  appren- 
ticeship I  remember  his  handing  to  me  an  article  by  an 
eminent  local  historian  and  antiquary,  and  saying:  "We 

244 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  245 

shall  print  this  article,  of  course,  but  I  wish  you  to  go  over 
it  and  strike  out  all  superfluous  words,  and  especially  all 
needless  adjectives. "  I  faithfully  performed  my  task,  and 
found  to  my  surprise  when  I  had  finished  that,  without  chang- 
ing or  cutting  down  the  article,  I  had  shortened  it  by  several 
pages.  It  was  a  valuable  lesson.  At  the  same  time  I  re- 
ceived much  more  important  and  much  more  direct  instruc- 
tion than  this.  Like  most  beginners  I  was  prone  to  write 
long  and  involved  sentences.  Mr.  Adams  insisted  that  the 
very  first  step  was  to  learn  to  write  clearly,  in  short  and 
simple  sentences,  and  that  when  that  difficulty  had  been 
mastered  the  greater  and  finer  art  of  ornament  and  of  choos- 
ing words  wherein  one's  ideal  is  never  attained,  would  fol- 
low. He  sent  me  to  Swift  to  study  simplicity  of  style  as 
well  as  force  and  energy  of  expression,  because  these  quali- 
ties are  exhibited  in  the  highest  degree  by  that  great  master 
of  English  prose.  He  encouraged  me  to  write  critical  no- 
tices for  the  Review,  but  was  very  severe  when  it  came  to 
the  question  of  acceptance.  My  first  article,  about  a  page 
in  length,  which  attained  the  honor  of  publication  was  a 
critical  notice  of  Baxmann's  "History  of  the  Popes."  I  re- 
wrote it  eight  times  before  it  passed  muster.  It  looks  very 
dry  and  abrupt  to  me  now,  but  I  can  see  that  it  was  at  least 
clear,  and  that  no  one  could  fail  to  understand  the  sentences 
or  what  I  was  trying  to  say.  I  went  on  writing  critical 
notices,  some  quite  elaborate  and  involving  much  work,  but 
three  years  elapsed  before  I  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  leading 
article.  The  appearance  of  my  essay  upon  Alexander  Ham- 
ilton in  1876  was  another  epoch  in  my  life,  and  I  wish  I 
could  again  feel  about  anything  the  glow  of  pride  which 
filled  my  being  when  the  number  containing  it  appeared. 

But  the  North  American  Review  was  not  my  only  occu- 
pation. I  entered  the  Harvard  Law  School  in  1872,  not 
with  any  intention  of  becoming  a  practising  lawyer,  but 


246  EARLY  MEMORIES 

partly  because  I  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  and  partly  because 
I  felt  it  would  be  of  value  to  me  as  a  form  of  education.  In 
this  I  was  not  disappointed.  I  became  convinced  then,  and 
have  ever  since  held  the  opinion,  that  for  mental  training, 
no  matter  what  a  man's  work  in  life  might  afterwards  be, 
nothing  was  equal  to  the  study  of  the  law.  There  is  no 
better  discipline  for  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  and  it  not  only 
teaches  men  to  reason  closely  and  exactly,  but  it  also  drives 
home  the  great  lesson,  so  often  left  unlearned,  that  to  most 
questions  there  are  two  sides  at  least,  and  that  it  is  neces- 
sary, if  you  would  master  a  subject,  to  know  every  side  and 
phase  and  be  prepared  to  meet  all  kinds  of  objections,  if  you 
wish  to  be  successful  in  presenting  your  case.  I  was  for- 
tunate also  in  entering  the  law  school  just  at  the  time  when 
Professor  Langdell  revolutionized  the  old  methods  of  in- 
struction. For  lectures  at  which  students  took  notes  in  the 
conventional  manner,  he  substituted  teaching  by  cases, 
which  forced  the  student  to  discuss  the  principles  of  law  de- 
veloped in  the  decisions  and  thus  to  use  his  own  mind,  in- 
stead of  learning  on  authority  and  accepting  the  conclusions 
of  the  writer  or  lecturer.  This  system,  thus  begun  and 
since  extended  and  fully  carried  out,  has  put  the  Harvard 
school  at  the  head  of  all  law  schools,  and  has  even  drawn  to 
it  students  from  England.  Incidentally  the  study  of  cases 
taught  us  also  the  history  of  the  common  law  and  of  equity, 
and  made  the  judges  and  chancellors  of  England  and  America 
not  mere  names  in  a  foot-note  to  support  an  assertion,  but 
living  men  whose  influence  upon  the  law,  whose  views  and 
whose  lives,  were  all  of  interest  and  moment.  I  learned  a 
great  deal  of  English  history  in  this  unlikely  way,  and  turned 
from  the  law  books  to  read  the  biographies  of  the  men  whose 
decisions  I  studied.  In  1874  I  took  my  degree  at  the  law 
school,  and  the  next  year  I  went  into  the  office  of  Ropes  & 
Gray  and  there  had  a  brief  experience  of  practice.  At  the 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  247 

end  of  my  year  in  the  office  I  came  up  to  be  examined  for 
admittance  to  the  bar.  My  examiner  was  Judge  Devens, 
an  old  friend  of  my  family,  a  distinguished  soldier  as  well 
as  an  eminent  lawyer,  and  a  most  delightful  man.  He  knew 
that  I  did  not  intend  to  practise,  and  he  asked  me  some  ques- 
tions about  constitutional  law,  among  others  about  the  right 
of  secession.  I  replied  that  I  did  not  regard  secession  as  a 
constitutional  question  at  all.  The  question  whether  the 
Constitution  had  made  a  nation  was  a  question  of  fact. 
Secession  was  revolution,  and  revolution  could  not  be  pro- 
vided for  or  prevented  by  a  paper  Constitution.  I  went 
into  the  point  quite  fully,  and  when  I  had  finished,  Judge 
Devens,  who  had  listened  to  me  with  apparent  interest, 
smilingly  said:  "That  was  hardly  Mr.  Webster's  view.'7 
But  he  admitted  me  to  the  bar,  of  which  I  have  been  a 
member  in  good  and  regular  standing  ever  since,  although 
I  have  never  practised. 

Years  afterwards  I  was  reminded  of  my  own  examination 
for  the  bar,  and  of  my  cheerful  readiness  to  answer  decisively 
a  difficult  and  much  mooted  question,  by  the  account  which 
Mr.  Reed  (the  Speaker)  gave  me  of  his  own  experience. 
He  was  in  California  after  the  war  and  there  applied  for 
admission  to  the  bar.  There  was  another  applicant  with 
him,  a  young  Southerner,  who  had  also  come  to  the  Pacific 
coast  to  seek  his  fortune.  The  judge  said  to  Mr.  Reed: 
"Are  the  legal  tenders  constitutional?"  Mr.  Reed  at  once 
replied:  "They  are."  The  judge  then  asked  the  same  ques- 
tion of  the  young  Southerner,  who  replied  with  equal  prompt- 
ness that  the  "legal  tenders"  were  not  constitutional. 
"Very  well,"  said  the  judge,  "you  are  both  admitted.  Two 
men  who  can  answer  that  question  without  hesitation  ought 
to  be  admitted  to  any  bar." 

The  mention  of  Judge  Devens  brings  to  my  mind  Judge 
E.  R.  Hoar  because  he,  like  Devens,  had  been  not  only  a 


248  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Judge  of  our  State  Supreme  Court  but  also  Attorney-general 
of  the  United  States  in  Grant's  administration.  His  family 
had  been  conspicuous  in  the  history  of  Massachusetts  from 
the  days  of  Leonard  Hoar;  President  of  Harvard  in  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  down  to  our  own  time.  His  father  was 
Samuel  Hoar,  champion  and  defender  of  the  slaves,  a  leader 
at  the  bar,  a  man  of  the  highest  and  finest  type  of  char- 
acter. Emerson  said  of  him,  that  when  he  took  his  place 
on  one  of  the  benches  in  the  town-hall,  "there  honor  came 
and  sat  beside  him."  Judge  Hoar  was  in  all  ways  worthy 
of  his  inheritance.  He  possessed  abilities  of  the  first  order, 
both  as  a  lawyer  and  as  a  public  man.  A  leader  in  the  anti- 
slavery  movement,  he  had  been  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Republican  party  in  Massachusetts.  He  was  by  nature  a 
partisan,  for  his  convictions  were  strong,  and  he  expressed 
them  with  uncompromising  force.  Many  persons  had  a 
vague  notion  that  he  was  also  unduly  austere,  an  idea  which 
found  expression  in  the  story  that  he  resigned  from  the 
Supreme  Bench  because  he  was  unable  to  decide  against 
both  parties  to  a  suit  as  he  often  longed  to  do.  This  con- 
ception, as  so  frequently  happens,  came  I  think  wholly  from 
those  who  saw  only  the  external  and  unessential  attributes 
and  did  not  know  the  real  man.  Judge  Hoar  was  in  truth 
as  tender-hearted  and  affectionate  as  he  was  fearless  and 
high-minded  in  all  the  affairs  both  of  public  and  private 
life.  It  has  always  been  a  great  regret  to  me  that  I  did 
not  have  the  opportunity  to  know  him  better,  for  he  awa- 
kened not  only  my  interest  but  my  admiration  and  respect 
both  for  his  ability  and  his  character.  I  met  him  occasion- 
ally at  the  Historical  Society,  and  later  when,  in  1884,  I 
was  chosen  a  member  of  the  board  of  overseers  of  Harvard, 
of  which  he  was  the  presiding  officer,  I  saw  him  constantly. 
He  was  very  kind  to  me,  very  sympathetic  in  regard  to  the 
political  opposition  against  which  I  was  then  contending, 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  249 

and  I  shall  always  remember  with  gratitude  that  kindness 
and  sympathy  from  a  man  so  distinguished  at  a  moment 
when  both  meant  a  great  deal  to  me.  I  liked  to  watch  him 
presiding  at  the  board  with  his  rather  saturnine  smile  and 
with  an  occasional  shaft  of  wit  which  much  enlivened  the 
proceedings.  As  a  presiding  officer  he  could  take  no  part 
in  the  discussions  and  had  but  slight  opportunity  for  the 
display  of  those  powers  of  debate,  and  especially  for  the 
telling  retort  and  quick  repartee,  which  had  made  him 
famous  both  in  Congress  and  in  political  discussion  before 
popular  audiences.  He  was  one  of  the  wittiest  men  of  his 
time,  and  had  also  a  keen  sense  of  humor  not  always  allied 
with  wit.  His  sayings  were  widely  repeated  and  quoted,  for, 
if  not  always  gentle,  they  never  lacked  the  power  of  stri- 
king deep  into  the  public  mind.  I  will  repeat  only  one  here 
because  it  is  characteristic  not  only  of  his  quickness  but  of 
the  ingenuity  with  which  he  could  give  an  entirely  unex- 
pected turn  to  an  apparently  obvious  and  commonplace 
incident. 

It  was  just  on  the  eve  of  the  Civil  War,  during  the 
months  of  devouring  anxiety  which  preceded  the  inaugura- 
tion of  Lincoln.  All  was  confusion  and  every  sort  of  scheme 
was  put  forward  to  save  the  country  from  disunion.  Worthy 
men,  especially  old  conservative  Whigs,  were  holding  meet- 
ings in  behalf  of  peace  and  union,  which  they  usually  wished 
to  secure  by  surrendering  to  the  South  all  that  had  been 
won  in  Lincoln's  election.  Among  other  bodies  a  society 
known  as  "The  Survivors  of  the  War  of  1812"  met  and 
passed  resolutions.  I  dimly  remember  a  handsome,  white- 
haired  old  gentleman  with  an  empty  sleeve  pinned  across 
his  coat,  who  they  told  me  was  Colonel  Aspinwall,  who  had 
lost  his  arm  in  the  last  war  with  Great  Britain.  The  mem- 
bers of  this  society  were  men  of  that  kind,  patriotic,  well- 
intentioned,  but  out  of  touch  with  the  time  and  with  no  real- 


250  EARLY  MEMORIES 

ization  of  the  inexorable  forces  which  had  the  country  in 
their  grip.  So  they  came  together  and  passed  some  futile 
peace  resolutions.  A  friend  asked  Judge  Hoar  what  he 
thought  of  the  resolutions  of  the  "Society  of  the  Survivors 
of  the  War  of  1812."  "It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  judge, 
"that  men  who  would  pass  resolutions  like  those  would 
probably  survive  any  war."  Anecdotes  might  be  multi- 
plied by  anyone  who  knew  Judge  Hoar  in  those  days,  but 
my  thought  here  is  not  so  much  of  the  humorist  and  wit 
as  of  the  eminent  lawyer  and  distinguished  public  man  who 
was  good  enough  to  step  out  of  his  way  to  be  a  kind  and 
sympathetic  friend  to  me. 

These  slight  reminiscences  of  Judge  Hoar  and  of  my 
admittance  to  the  bar  by  Judge  Devens  bring  to  my  mind 
another  distinguished  lawyer  and  eminent  judge,  of  whom 
I  saw  much  in  those  days.  This  was  Horace  Gray,  judge 
and  then  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massa- 
chusetts, and  later  for  many  years  a  Justice  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States.  He  was  the  older,  much  older 
half-brother  of  my  early  companion  and  contemporary, 
Russell  Gray,  and  in  a  remote  fashion  I  had  always  seen  and 
known  him.  He  was  also  the  half-brother  of  John  C.  Gray, 
in  whose  office  I  studied  law,  and  who  is  not  only  an  eminent 
lawyer  of  great  ability  and  learning,  but  a  most  accomplished 
and  cultivated  man,  for  many  years  a  distinguished  professor 
at  the  Harvard  Law  School.  In  this  way  I  came  very  natu- 
rally to  know  Judge  Gray,  and  to  see  him  more  and  more 
frequently  after  I  returned  to  Boston  from  Europe.  He 
lived  not  far  from  us,  on  Beacon  Hill,  and  as  he  asked  me  to 
come  to  see  him  I  fell  into  the  habit  of  going  there  in  the 
evening  and  sitting  with  him,  sometimes,  I  fear,  to  uncon- 
scionable hours,  while  we  smoked  and  talked.  He  was  kind 
enough  to  take  a  genuine  interest  in  what  I  was  doing,  or 
trying  to  do,  which  is  a  sure  way  to  the  heart  of  a  young 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  251 

man.  He  knew  a  great  deal  about  American  history,  as  he 
did  about  most  subjects,  and  was  especially  versed  in  all 
that  portion  of  it  which  concerned  Boston  and  Massachusetts, 
to  which  my  attention  was  just  then  particularly  directed. 
As  a  matter  of  course  his  knowledge  of  lawyers  and  judges, 
both  at  home  and  in  England,  was  unlimited,  and  although 
he  rarely  talked  about  the  law  he  had  a  great  deal  to  say 
about  those  who  practised  it,  and  about  the  traditions  of 
the  English  and  American  bar,  which  was  far  more  amusing. 
But  our  chief  subject  of  discourse  was  politics.  The  judge, 
from  his  position,  was  obliged  to  be  silent  as  to  things  po- 
litical, but  by  nature  he  was  admirably  fitted  to  be  a  dis- 
tinguished public  man,  and  he  loved  politics  dearly.  He 
held  strong  opinions  and  was  a  very  pronounced  Republi- 
can. Feeling  that  he  could  rely  on  my  discretion,  he  talked 
to  me  with  entire  freedom,  and  liked  to  hear  from  me  all 
the  details  of  local  as  well  as  general  politics.  He  had  but 
little  liking  for  the  various  independent  movements,  in 
which  as  a  young  man  I  was  interested,  nor  did  he  put 
much  faith  in  Mr.  Schurz  and  the  other  leaders  of  those 
movements;  but  after  I  became  one  of  the  active  men  in 
the  Republican  party  in  which  we  had  both  been  brought 
up,  he  was  the  most  sympathetic  and  helpful  of  friends.  I 
was  often  asked  to  dinner  at  his  house,  where  it  was  always 
most  agreeable  to  be,  for  he  had  the  faculty  of  gathering 
about  him  the  best  and  most  interesting  men  of  all  pro- 
fessions and  callings.  Of  one  such  occasion  I  find  a  note 
in  my  most  fragmentary  diary.  We  were  asked  to  meet 
Mr.  Edward  Freeman,  the  English  historian,  and  the  " we" 
included  Judge  John  Lowell,  of  the  United  States  Court; 
Judge  Endicott,  Secretary  of  War  in  Mr.  Cleveland's  first 
cabinet;  Francis  Parkman,  the  historian;  Mr.  John  C. 
Gray;  Mr.  Melville  Bigelow,  the  well-known  writer  upon 
early  law,  and  myself.  I  looked  forward  with  much  in- 


252  EARLY  MEMORIES 

terest  to  meeting  Mr.  Freeman,  for  my  studies  had  led  me 
to  read  his  books  with  care,  and  while  I  had  not  always 
agreed  with  him  I  had  much  admired  his  force,  learning, 
and  vigor  of  statement.  Memory  recalls  him  clearly,  and 
a  feeling  of  disappointment  as  well.  The  contemporary 
record  in  this  case  does  not  contradict  memory  and  brings 
back  the  scene  very  distinctly.  It  runs  as  follows,  in  the 
unchartered  freedom  of  brief  notes: 

"Mr.  Freeman,  a  short,  stout  Englishman — full,  rather 
good  reddish  brown  beard — tallowy,  yellow  hair,  of  a  dark 
shade — small  mouth  apparently  defective  in  teeth.  Spoke 
but  little.  When  he  did,  with  point  and  often  humor. 
Seemed  to  understand  what  was  being  said  when  he  spoke 
and  yet  appeared  utterly  heavy  and  indifferent  most  of  the 
time,  not  infrequently  yawning.  Seemed  almost  impossible 
that  he  should  be  a  man  of  great  historical  reputation  who 
had  written  some  really  good  books.  No  snap,  no  quick- 
ness, no  vivacity,  no  sympathy.  Judge  Lowell's  dry  and 
pleasant  humor  seemed  to  escape  Mr.  Freeman  unless  it 
was  repeated." 

Obviously  we  did  not  interest  our  distinguished  guest, 
although,  as  I  was  the  youngest  and  most  silent  of  the  party, 
I  think  I  may  say  that  those  present  were  intelligent,  well- 
bred,  and  well-educated  men,  not  without  achieved  dis- 
tinction, and  quite  fit  for  any  conversation  possible  even  to 
the  historian  of  the  Norman  Conquest.  I  remember  that 
at  the  time  the  verses  which  had  recently  been  printed  in 
England  came  into  my  head: 

"Ladling  butter  from  their  mutual  tubs, 
Stubbs  butters  Freeman, 
Freeman  butters  Stubbs." 

Possibly  we  were  deficient  in  the  agreeable  art  here  attrib- 
uted to  the  excellent  and  learned  bishop. 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:  1873-1880  253 

Not  long  after  this  dinner,  which  occurred  in  October, 
1881,  Judge  Gray  was  appointed  a  Justice  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States,  and  consequently  lived  in  Wash- 
ington from  that  time  until  his  death.  Whenever,  after  his 
appointment,  I  went  to  Washington  I  dined  at  his  house, 
where,  as  in  Boston,  he  brought  together  the  most  interest- 
ing men  then  at  the  bar  or  in  public  life.  A  few  years 
later  I  also  went  to  Washington  as  a  member  of  the  House, 
and  later  as  senator,  so  that  once  more  I  saw  him  constantly 
and  our  old  talks  were  renewed. 

The  high  judicial  reputation  which  Judge  Gray  had  ac- 
quired in  Massachusetts  was  greatly  increased  and  extended 
during  his  service  in  the  Supreme  Court.  He  was  a  learned 
judge  in  the  fullest  sense,  and  his  learning  was  as  wide  as  it 
was  profound.  To  a  rapidity  of  acquisition  such  as  is 
seldom  seen  was  joined  a  memory  of  extraordinary  strength 
and  exactness.  On  any  question  which  arose  precedents 
and  authorities  seemed,  without  effort,  to  assemble  and 
marshal  themselves  in  order  before  him.  Some  of  his  opin- 
ions, like  the  case  of  the  "Paquette  Habana,"  were  complete 
presentations  not  only  of  the  law,  but  of  the  entire  history 
of  the  subject.  It  was  sometimes  said,  in  criticism,  that 
Judge  Gray  indulged  too  freely  in  authorities,  tempted 
thereto  by  his  immense  and  always  ready  knowledge.  The 
criticism  never  seemed  to  me  to  have  much  weight,  but  it 
is  certain  that  he  was  quite  capable  of  plucking  out  the  heart 
of  a  case  and  setting  forth  sharply  and  very  briefly  the  cen- 
tral principle,  stripped  of  all  citations  or  comments,  as  he 
did  in  his  opinion  in  one  of  the  "Island  cases." 

Judge  Gray  was  a  very  imposing  and  impressive  figure, 
especially  in  his  judicial  robes,  and  on  the  bench  physical 
appearance  has  its  especial  value,  for  it  is  well  that  the 
court  should  not  look  insignificant  or  unimportant.  Gray 
certainly  fulfilled  every  requirement.  He  was  very  tall, 


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STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  255 

as  he  walked  along  with  a  large,  imperfectly  brushed  hat, 
always  a  tall  hat,  pushed  far  down  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  with  his  coat  collar,  in  cold  weather,  rising  up  above 
his  ears.  Once  seen  he  was  not  a  figure  to  be  forgotten, 
and  the  last  man,  one  would  think,  to  be  impersonated  by 
anybody.  Yet  on  a  certain  occasion,  when  election  frauds 
under  the  auspices  of  Tammany  were  rampant  in  New  York, 
on  going  to  the  polling-place  and  giving  his  name  to  the 
election  clerk  he  was  told  that  Mr.  Evarts  had  already  voted. 
"Has  he,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  Evarts.  "I  hope  he  voted 
right." 

I  had  the  happiness  to  make  his  personal  acquaintance 
on  one  of  my  early  political  excursions  to  New  York.  He 
identified  me  immediately  as  the  nephew  of  my  uncle, 
George  Cabot,  who  had  been  his  classmate  at  the  Boston 
Latin  School,  and  he  was  most  kind  and  friendly  to  me  then 
and  ever  afterwards.  I  find  in  my  fragments  of  a  diary  that 
I  was  in  New  York  on  April  5,  1885,  and  made  the  following 
note: 


In  the  evening  we  went  to  the  Irving  dinner  for  which  I  came 
on.  Sat  near  the  front  between  John  McCullough,  the  actor,  and 
Roosevelt.  McCullough  was  never  a  great  actor,  although  a 
popular,  successful  and  painstaking  one,  but  he  was  also,  as  I 
was  told,  one  of  the  most  pleasant  and  good  natured  of  men.  He 
is  now  quite  broken  by  a  brain  disease — very  pathetic  to  look  at 
— fine  face — no  speculation  in  his  eyes.  The  dinner  was  very 
pleasant.  Evarts,  Irving  and  Beecher  spoke  admirably,  the  rest 
poorly.  Just  before  dinner  I  had  a  few  words  with  Evarts.  Mc- 
Cullough and  Florence  (the  actor)  came  up  to  Evarts  and  recalled 
to  him  a  voyage  they  had  made  together.  "  In  what  ship  was  it?  " 
asked  some  one.  "  I  don't  know,"  said  Evarts.  "  I  only  know  that 
we  were  all  in  transports."  The  other  night  at  the  Yale  dinner 
just  as  Evarts  rose  to  speak  the  large  sugar  ornament  in  front  of 
him  fell  over.  Evarts  without  a  moment's  hesitation  said:  "Ah, 
gentlemen,  this  is  a  candied  tribute  I  did  not  expect." 


256  EARLY  MEMORIES 

A  little  later  in  the  same  month  Mr.  Evarts  came  to 
Boston  to  make  a  political  speech  before  the  Middlesex 
Club,  and  on  the  following  day,  April  19,  he  dined  at  my 
house.  I  give  the  account  of  the  dinner  which  I  find  in  my 
roughly  written  notes,  just  as  it  is,  with  abrupt  and  de- 
tached sentences: 

April  19th,  Sunday. — Evarts  dined  here  today.  I  had  to  meet 
him  Dr.  Holmes,  Mr.  Howells,  Judge  Devens,  Governor  Long, 
Francis  A.  Walker,  William  G.  Russell,  F.  E.  Parker— these  with 
Mrs.  Lodge  and  myself  made  up  the  ten.  It  was  very  pleasant. 
Evarts  is  by  all  odds  the  most  brilliant  after  dinner  talker  I  ever 
heard.  His  talk  is  phosphorescent,  flashing  all  the  time  and  with 
no  more  apparent  effort  than  the  waves.  He  told  a  good  story  of 
the  Great  Eastern  case  and  George  Ticknor  Curtis'  rhetoric; 
"Six  men,  six,  save  that  Leviathian  etc!  !  Six  men  would  be 
worth  no  more  than  six — six — six  babies."  Evarts  interrupting 
him:  "Six  babies  are  something  in  a  squall."  Disgust  of  Curtis 
and  breakup  of  rhetoric. 

Evarts  said  that  Sir  Roundell  Palmer  acknowledged  to  him 
after  full  consideration  that  Judah  P.  Benjamin  was  the  leader  of 
the  English  bar, — a  very  extraordinary  case.  Evarts  told  many 
good  stories,  as  of  the  convict,  who  thanked  the  clergyman  who 
had  obtained  his  pardon  and  returning  with  gratitude  the  bible 
lent  him,  said  he  hoped  he  should  never  have  occasion  to  use  it 
again.  But  it  is  not  so  much  as  a  story  teller  as  in  the  flow  of 
conversation  that  Evarts  excells.  We  sat  at  table  until  nearly 
midnight  and  then  Evarts  rose  with  great  reluctance,  ensconced 
himself  in  his  rough,  old  beaver  hat,  extending  from  his  coat  collar 
to  his  eye  brows,  and  slowly  withdrew. 

On  that  same  occasion,  although  it  is  not  in  the  diary, 
he  said  something  to  me  alone  which  I  have  always  remem- 
bered. I  was  just  then  beginning  to  make  studies  for  my 
"Life  of  Washington,"  and  I  told  Mr.  Evarts  in  that  con- 
nection how  much  I  had  been  amused  by  his  reply  to  Lord 
Coleridge.  A  little  more  than  a  year  before  when  Lord 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:  1873-1880  257 

Coleridge  was  in  America  some  one  pointed  out  the  place 
near  Fredericksburg  where  Washington  had  thrown  a  silver 
dollar  across  the  Rappahannock.  Upon  the  lord  chief 
justice  expressing  surprise,  Evarts  said:  "You  know,  of 
course,  that  a  dollar  went  much  farther  in  those  days  than 
it  does  now."  The  story  ran  through  the  newspapers,  be- 
came a  twice-told  tale,  and  had  a  deserved  success.  On  my 
recalling  it  Mr.  Evarts  smiled  in  his  dry  way  and  said: 
"Yes,  it  was  very  well  for  the  moment,  but  I  was  humbled 
soon  after  by  finding  how  much  more  witty  other  people 
were.  Some  perfectly  unknown  newspaper  writer  put  in  a 
paragraph  to  this  effect:  'What  Mr.  Evarts  ought  to  have 
said;  That  to  throw  a  dollar  across  the  Rappahannock  was 
nothing  to  a  man  who  had  thrown  a  sovereign  across  the 
Atlantic.'  "  Neither  I  nor  any  one  else  had  seen  that  para- 
graph in  the  newspapers,  but  it  amused  me  to  learn  how 
Mr.  Evarts  had  revised  his  first  version. 

The  fact  was  that  wherever  he  went  he  left  behind  him 
some  saying  or  witticism  which  clings  to  the  place  like  an 
inscription  on  the  walls.  Every  one,  for  example,  who  goes 
to  the  State  Department  is  aware  that  Mr.  Evarts,  looking 
at  an  elevator  car  as  it  slowly  ascended,  filled  to  overflowing, 
observed  that  "  he  had  never  before  seen  so  large  a  collection 
taken  up  for  foreign  missions."  Every  visitor  to  the  same 
department  knows  that  Mr.  Evarts  proposed  to  have  carved 
on  one  side  of  his  door:  "Come  ye  disconsulate,"  and  on 
the  other:  "Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  ch'entrate."  Mr. 
Evarts  was  noted  for  procrastination,  for  not  doing  to-day 
what  might  be  done  to-morrow.  Mr.  Schurz  told  me  that 
when  they  were  in  the  Hayes  cabinet  together  it  was  very 
difficult  to  extract  from  Evarts  a  report  on  any  matter 
referred  to  the  State  Department.  One  day  the  President 
was  extremely  urgent,  and  Mr.  Evarts  said:  "You  don't 
sufficiently  realize,  Mr.  President,  the  great  truth  that  al- 


258  EARLY  MEMORIES 

most  any  question  will  settle  itself  if  you  will  only  let  it 
alone  long  enough." 

When  he  was  in  the  Senate,  my  colleague  in  after  years, 
Senator  Hoar,  had  a  bill  about  which  he  was  very  anxious, 
and  which  had  been  referred  to  Evarts  for  report.  Months 
passed  and  no  bill  appeared.  Meeting  Mr.  Evarts  one  day 
in  the  corridor,  Mr.  Hoar,  who  was  his  first  cousin,  said: 
"By  the  way,  Evarts,  when  you  report  that  bill  of  mine, 
just  notify  my  executors."  "They  will  be  gentlemen  whom 
I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet,"  was  the  reply.  Mr.  Evarts 
might  delay  action  on  a  report,  but  he  never  procrastinated 
in  repartee.  The  little  stories,  all  well  known,  which  I  have 
just  repeated,  illustrate  his  extraordinary  quickness,  his 
possession  of  that  rare  faculty  of  saying  a  good  thing,  of 
uttering  a  witticism  on  the  instant  when  by  no  possibility 
could  there  have  been  any  chance  for  preparation  of  any 
kind.  But  the  ready  wit,  the  humor,  and  the  jest,  were 
really  the  least  part  of  his  remarkable  qualities.  Mr.  Evarts 
was  a  man  of  the  first  order  of  ability.  He  was  a  great 
lawyer,  for  many  years  the  acknowledged  head  of  the 
American  bar.  He  was  an  eminent  public  man,  distin- 
guished in  every  office  he  held,  and  a  high-minded  public 
servant.  He  was  a  powerful  and  eloquent  as  well  as  a 
humorous  and  witty  speaker.  It  used  to  be  said  that  he 
spoke  sometimes  at  too  great  length,  and  I  remember  hear- 
ing him  say  in  a  speech  that  he  "had  been  criticised  as  many 
of  our  railroads  were  criticised  for  a  lack  of  terminal  facili- 
ties." But  whether  he  spoke  briefly  or  at  length  I  never 
heard  of  his  wearying  any  one.  Personally  he  was  the  most 
agreeable  and  delightful  of  men,  and  I  have  always  been 
very  grateful  for  the  unvarying  kindness  which  he  showed 
to  me  when  I  was  a  young,  unknown,  and  wholly  unim- 
portant person. 

The  diary  entry  of  the  guests  at  my  little  dinner  for  Mr. 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  259 

Evarts  brings  to  my  mind  another  friend  of  whom,  as  I 
have  been  speaking  of  lawyers,  I  must  say  a  word  here,  al- 
though I  have  no  intention  of  launching  out  into  recollec- 
tions or  stories  of  either  bar  or  bench  at  the  time  when  I 
completed  my  legal  studies.  Mr.  Francis  E.  Parker  was  a 
distinguished  member  of  the  Suffolk  bar,  one  of  the  leading 
lawyers  of  Boston.  Yet  it  is  not  in  his  professional  capacity 
that  I  think  of  him,  but  as  a  friend  to  whom  I  was  much 
attached  and  as  a  very  unusual  and  quite  remarkable  man. 
That  he  was  not  known  beyond  his  State  and  city  was 
wholly  his  own  choice,  for  he  had  talents  which  would  have 
carried  him  to  the  front  rank  in  public  life  had  he  so  desired, 
and  he  might  easily  have  figured  as  one  of  the  best-known 
lawyers  of  his  time  if  he  had  ever  been  willing  to  push  him- 
self forward  in  the  practice  which  not  only  brings  professional 
renown  but  which  also  rivets  the  attention  of  the  public. 
He  had,  however,  a  contempt  for  notoriety  and  a  dislike  of 
publicity,  and  he  turned  deliberately  away  from  oppor- 
tunities which  seemed  to  involve  either.  A  graduate  of 
Harvard,  and  devoted  all  his  life  to  the  interests  and  the 
affairs  of  the  university,  he  was  a  scholar  in  the  broad  sense, 
a  lover  of  books,  widely  read  and  a  most  accomplished  lin- 
guist. He  had  travelled  much  and  seen  a  great  deal,  look- 
ing with  an  observant  eye  on  men  and  cities,  and  upon  the 
works  of  ancient  and  modern  art,  of  which  he  was  very  fond. 
In  his  day  he  was  one  of  the  best-known  figures  in  Boston, 
and  his  wit  and  his  peculiarities  were  quoted  and  laughed  at 
by  every  one.  Never  married,  he  lived  in  chambers  sur- 
rounded by  his  books,  his  prints  and  pictures,  and  by  the 
many  things  he  had  collected  in  his  wanderings.  He  was 
most  hospitable  and  kind,  especially  to  young  men  to  whom 
he  could  give  a  helping  hand.  Beneath  the  calm  exterior 
and  cool  manner,  behind  the  sarcasm  and  wit,  was  a  most 
generous  and  sympathetic  nature,  concealed  by  preference 
from  the  world  at  large,  which  knew  him  chiefly  by  clever 


260  EARLY  MEMORIES 

epigrams,  sometimes  more  witty  than  good-natured.  He 
was  impatient  of  dulness,  especially  if  accompanied  by  pre- 
tence or  pomposity.  I  remember  his  saying  of  a  person 
for  whom  he  had,  I  thought,  an  unreasonable  and  too  seri- 
ous dislike:  "I  knew  his  father  well,  a  very  honest  and 
excellent  man.  He  kept  an  intelligence  office — not  at  the 
time  of  X's  birth,  however."  X  at  one  period  undertook 
to  be  a  real  estate  broker,  and  Parker,  who  administered 
large  trusts,  being  asked  by  a  client  to  recommend  a  good, 
permanent  investment,  replied:  "I  should  define  a  perma- 
nent investment  as  purchasing  some  real  estate  and  giving 
it  to  X  to  sell." 

Like  Lamb's  Hester,  he  had: 

"A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind." 

Perhaps  these  are  not  gifts  to  be  desired,  for  they  make  one 
perceive  foibles  when  affection  would  fain  have  blindness. 
Such  was  the  case,  at  all  events,  with  Mr.  Parker.  I  re- 
member his  saying  of  an  intimate  friend — very  probably  he 
said  it  to  him,  for  he  was  wholly  honest — a  friend  whom  he 
loved,  and  in  common  with  every  one  else  admired:  "That 
if  he  had  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages  he  would  have  gone  to 
the  stake  for  a  principle  under  a  misapprehension  as  to  the 
facts." 

This  epigrammatic  force  was  very  characteristic  and  very 
telling  in  his  conversation.  I  have  heard  him  debate  in 
the  board  of  overseers  of  the  college,  and  he  was  one  of  the 
best  and  keenest  debaters  I  have  ever  seen  in  action,  and  I 
have  seen  and  heard  many.  He  was  elected  once  to  the 
State  Senate  from  a  Boston  district.  Everybody  thought 
that  there,  in  a  political  body,  among  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men,  he  would  be  particularly  out  of  place.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  proved  a  great  success.  The  members  from  the 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  261 

country  districts,  and  indeed  all  the  members,  not  only  liked 
him,  but  came  to  admire  him  and  feel  proud  of  the  distinction 
he  brought  to  the  body.  He  declined  a  re-election,  and  never 
held  office  again.  It  seemed  as  if  he  merely  wished  to  dem- 
onstrate that  he  could  succeed  in  politics  if  he  chose,  and 
having  done  so;  he  went  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
His  friends  thought  he  would  fail  in  a  popular  representative 
assembly,  because  they  believed  that  the  members  of  such  a 
body  could  not  penetrate  what  was  external  and  superficial 
and  find  the  real  man  of  strong  ability  and  character  and 
of  genuine  sympathy  behind  the  personal  peculiarities.  In 
so  thinking  they  gravely  underestimated  the  shrewd  intelli- 
gence of  the  men  who  in  those  days  sat  in  the  Massachu- 
setts Legislature. 

Mr.  Parker  was  a  man  who  valued  details.  He  dressed 
most  quietly  but  very  well  and  carefully,  and  in  a  studiously 
finished  way.  He  always  looked  his  part — the  barrister  of 
high  standing.  With  a  well-knit,  rather  slender  figure  and 
a  clear-cut,  strong,  and  intellectual  face,  he  was  not  a  man 
to  be  passed  by  unnoticed.  He  spoke  his  native  language 
extremely  well  and  very  scrupulously,  with  a  slight  English 
inflection;  his  voice  was  clear  and  even  and  his  enunciation 
quite  perfect.  People  thought  these  qualities  and  a  sharp- 
ness of  repartee  from  which  he  could  not  refrain  would 
excite  prejudice  in  the  Legislature.  As  there  was  a  genu- 
ine man  behind  them,  they  aroused  admiration. 

This  mention  of  his  care  and  respect  for  the  language 
which  he  spoke  brings  to  my  mind  an  occasion  interesting 
on  other  accounts,  but  which  is  indelibly  associated  in  my 
mind  with  Mr.  Parker.  I  find  in  my  diary,  under  date  of 
April  12,  1883,  the  following: 

Dined  at  General  Whittier's  to  meet  Ex-President  Diaz  of 
Mexico.  Very  handsome  dinner — music,  etc.  There  were  twenty 


262  EARLY  MEMORIES 

at  the  dinner — all  men.  I  sat  between  Frank  Parker  and  Endi- 
cott  Peabody.  Diaz  himself  has  a  strong,  Indian  half-breed  face; 
ruthless,  calm,  vigorous,  soldierlike;  an  ideal  leader  of  South 
American  revolution.  He  speaks  no  English  and  French  badly. 
Senator  Rubio  (with  Diaz)  sat  opposite  to  me;  pure  Spanish  type; 
spoke  no  English  but  some  little  French.  Very  pleasant  dinner. 

In  view  of  all  that  has  happened  since,  my  impression  of 
Diaz  in  1883  seems  now  to  have  been  fairly  accurate.  I 
remember  Senator  Rubio  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  his 
chief.  I  made  suitable  reply,  and  added  with  a  smile  that 
he  looked  rather  stern,  and  as  if  he  would  not  hesitate  to 
shoot  an  enemy  before  breakfast.  "Shoot  an  enemy !" 
said  Senator  Rubio;  "I  have  known  him  shoot  three 
hundred  enemies  before  breakfast." 

But  what  amused  me  most  at  the  dinner  was  Parker. 
On  his  other  side  was  some  distinguished  Mexican  who 
asked  him  if  he  spoke  Spanish.  "No,"  said  Parker  in 
Spanish,  "English  is  the  only  language  I  know  other  than 
my  own."  This  answer  naturally  left  the  Mexican  rather 
dazed.  Then  I  heard  Parker,  in  seeking  a  common  medium 
of  conversation,  address  his  neighbor  in  Italian,  which  failed, 
then  in  Latin,  which  also  failed,  and  finally  in  French,  with 
which  they  managed  to  get  along  sufficiently  well. 

Parker  was  very  fond  of  Italians  and  of  Italy.  Almost 
every  summer  he  went  abroad  and  took  a  walking  tour  in 
the  Alps  or  the  Tyrol.  One  year  he  chanced  to  go  by  Turin, 
and  the  next  year,  as  it  happened,  he  went  the  same  way  and 
stopped  at  the  same  hotel  where  he  had  passed  a  night  a 
twelvemonth  before.  The  waiter  made  the  customary  as- 
sumption of  recognizing  him,  as  Parker  thought,  but  when 
he  offered  the  wine-card  he  said:  "II  solito,  signor?"  This 
so  delighted  Parker  that  ever  after  he  made  a  practice  of 
going  to  Turin  just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  that  waiter 
ask  him  once  a  year  if  he  would  take  his  usual  wine. 


STARTING  IN  LIFE  :   1873-1880  263 

I  might  run  on  with  many  memories  of  one  of  the  most 
delightful  of  men  whose  humor  and  wit  and  wisdom  I  am 
happy  to  say  I  prized  at  the  time.  But  I  will  stop  here  with 
this  very  inadequate  attempt  to  recall  and  picture  a  man 
who  gave  me  his  friendship,  and  whose  death,  all  too  soon, 
has  deprived  me  of  one  whom  I  have  never  ceased  to  miss. 

I  did  not  confine  my  studies  at  this  time,  however,  to 
law  and  equity  and  the  statutes  and  practice  of  Massa- 
chusetts. While  I  was  still  in  the  law  school  I  entered  upon 
a  post-graduate  course  in  Anglo-Saxon  law  with  Henry 
Adams.  There  were  two  other  students:  Ernest  Young,  a 
very  clever  man,  who  died  prematurely,  and  J.  Laurence 
Laughlin,  who  has  since  reached  distinction  as  a  political 
economist.  In  this  field  the  forlorn  studies  of  the  year 
after  my  return  from  Europe  proved  of  use,  but  the  work 
imposed  upon  me  demanded  a  wide  investigation  of  early 
charters,  laws,  and  chronicles,  and  I  was  obliged  to  learn 
Anglo-Saxon  sufficiently  well  to  read  the  original  documents. 
My  subject  was  "The  Anglo-Saxon  Land  Law."  The 
essay  which  I  wrote  thereon  was  neither  easy  nor  cheer- 
ful reading,  but  it  represented  a  great  deal  of  honest  work 
and  of  thorough  and  original  investigation.  I  offered  it  as 
the  thesis  for  which  I  received  the  degree  of  Ph.D.  from 
Harvard  in  1876,  and  it  was  also  included  in  a  volume  which 
Mr.  Adams  published  on  Anglo-Saxon  law,  containing  essays 
by  himself  and  by  Young  and  Laughlin.  Years  afterwards 
Sir  Frederick  Pollock  sent  me  his  book  on  "Land  Laws," 
and  I  found  in  it  a  note  discussing  some  opinion  which  I 
had  expressed  in  my  essay  on  "The  Anglo-Saxon  Land 
Law."  So  completely  had  I  been  drawn  to  other  subjects 
and  other  interests  that  every  vestige  of  knowledge  of  what 
I  had  myself  written  had  been  swept  away,  and  I  stared  in 
blank  ignorance  at  my  own  statement.  I  could  not  say,  as 
Swift  did,  when  in  his  old  age  he  looked  at  the  "Tale  of  a 


264  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Tub,"  "Good  God!  what  a  genius  I  had  when  I  wrote  that 
book!"  but  I  thought:  "How  much  I  knew  when  I  wrote 
that  essay  which  I  have  now  ceased  to  know!"  It  seems 
as  if  the  mind  could  hold  a  certain  amount  upon  a  given 
number  of  subjects,  and  when  it  is  full  a  new  subject  dis- 
places an  old  one.  I  suppose  I  could,  with  much  effort, 
recover  my  knowledge  of  "the  Anglo-Saxon  land  law," 
but  I  was  impressed  by  the  completeness  of  its  erasure  as  I 
read  Sir  Frederick  Pollock's  note. 

In  studying  law  and  in  the  work  of  editing  the  North 
American  I  had  been  gradually  drawn  toward  the  history  of 
my  own  country.  My  inclination  in  that  direction  had 
been  strengthened  by  my  carrying  out  a  long-cherished  plan 
of  bringing  together  the  letters  of  my  great-grandfather, 
George  Cabot,  senator  from  Massachusetts  from  1791  to 
1796,  and  one  of  the  leading  Federalists  of  his  time,  and  of 
printing  them  with  an  accompanying  memoir.  Mr.  Cabot, 
who  seemed  throughout  his  life  to  aim  at  self-effacement, 
had  destroyed  all  his  letters  just  before  his  death.  This 
was  a  great  misfortune,  for  he  had  been  an  intimate  of 
Hamilton,  as  well  as  in  close  relations  of  friendship  with 
Washington,  Oliver  Wolcott,  Timothy  Pickering,  and  all 
the  leading  statesmen  of  the  days  when  the  government  of 
the  United  States  under  the  Constitution  was  being  estab- 
lished. But  Mr.  Cabot's  correspondents  had  preserved  his 
letters,  even  if  he  had  destroyed  theirs,  and  I  was  able  to  get 
them  from  the  various  collections  and  sometimes  copies  of 
their  letters  to  him  when  such  had  been  kept.  In  this  way 
I  gathered  an  abundance  of  material.  The  book  developed 
into  quite  an  ample  volume,  and  also  into  a  study  of  New 
England  federalism,  and  of  the  conditions  which  led  to  the 
famous  Hartford  Convention,  of  which  Mr.  Cabot  was 
president. 

This  biography  of  my  great-grandfather,  my  first  ven- 


STARTING  IN  LIFE  :  1873-1880  265 

ture  in  the  literary  field,  is  inseparably  connected  in  my 
mind  with  Colonel  Henry  Lee,  to  whose  assistance,  and  still 
more  to  whose  unflagging  sympathy,  I  was  deeply  indebted 
in  the  preparation  of  my  book.  I  had  always  known  him, 
for  his  eldest  son  had  been  at  school  with  me,  and  he  was 
an  old  friend  as  well  as  the  kinsman  of  my  mother  and  the 
companion  and  contemporary  of  her  only  brother.  But 
our  intercourse  had  necessarily  been  merely  that  of  a  ma- 
ture man  with  a  boy  young  enough  to  be  his  son.  Now  he 
became  my  friend,  adviser,  and  helper  in  the  work  I  had 
undertaken.  As  I  have  just  said,  we  were  related.  His 
grandmother  was  the  only  sister  of  my  great-grandfather, 
who  had  left  college  to  go  to  sea  with  his  brother-in-law, 
Joseph  Lee,  with  whom  he  was  later  associated  in  business. 
The  actual  relationship  was  not  very  near,  but  with  Colonel 
Lee  family  feeling  was  very  strong,  and  blood  was  a  good 
deal  thicker  than  water.  Moreover,  he  felt  intensely  about 
our  early  politics,  and  was  as  violent  a  Federalist  as  if  he 
had  lived  through  the  administrations  of  Washington  and 
Adams  and  Jefferson.  So  when  I  undertook  to  write  the 
biography  of  his  great-uncle,  whose  memory  he  had  always 
cherished  and  revered,  he  took  as  much  interest  in  the  book 
as  I  did.  To  him  I  not  only  owed  all  my  information  about 
the  family,  but  the  fruit  of  his  own  researches,  and  all  his 
knowledge  of  that  period  in  our  history,  were  put  freely  at 
my  service.  My  gratitude  at  the  time  I  tried  to  express  to 
him;  it  was  certainly  both  deep  and  sincere.  But  I  like 
to  make  this  little  record  of  it  here.  Apart  from  the  book 
I  was  grateful  also  for  his  friendship,  for  he  was  a  man 
whose  friendship  was  an  honor.  For  many  years  he  was 
one  of  the  most  respected  as  he  was  one  of  the  best-known 
men  in  Boston.  Although  he  was  always  actively  engaged 
in  large  and  very  successful  business  affairs,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  public-spirited  men  I  have  ever  known.  He  never 


266  EARLY  MEMORIES 

sought  or  desired  public  office  of  any  kind,  but  he  was 
always  ready  to  serve  State  or  nation  or  city  without  any 
thought  of  personal  recognition  or  reward.  During  the  war 
he  was  a  member  of  Governor  Andrew's  staff,  and  labored 
unceasingly  in  the  heavy  and  anxious  work  of  organizing 
and  sending  out  the  regiments  of  Massachusetts.  He  was 
a  thorough  American  of  the  best  type,  intensely  patriotic 
and  a  hater  of  political  misdeeds,  as  in  his  youth  he  had 
hated  and  fought  against  slavery.  No  public  movement 
for  good  in  Boston  was  complete  without  him,  and  he  was 
as  fearless  as  he  was  active  and  energetic.  He  entered 
into  every  field:  the  college,  the  city,  the  State,  all  com- 
manded his  time  and  his  labors.  He  was  generous  in  all 
ways,  giving  not  only  to  every  good  object,  but  indulging 
largely  in  that  hidden  kindness  to  men  and  women  which 
carries  happiness  and  release  from  care  to  those  upon 
whom  the  bounty,  delicately  given,  falls.  His  interests  were 
many.  He  knew  a  great  deal  of  our  own  history,  both 
local  and  national.  He  was  a  lover  of  books  and  literature, 
of  art  in  all  forms,  and  had  a  strong  taste  for  the  theatre, 
being  himself  the  best  amateur  actor  I  have  ever  seen.  The 
chief  characteristic  about  Mr.  Lee,  as  I  look  back  on  him, 
was  strength — mental,  physical,  and  moral.  He  had  a 
great  deal  of  humor  and  said  many  good  things  which  were 
widely  quoted,  sometimes,  I  think,  because  he  had  a  way 
of  freeing  his  mind  and  uttering  rather  searching  criticisms 
in  the  presence  of  the  person  criticised.  It  always  seemed  to 
me  that  the  old  Puritan  qualities  were  very  vital  in  him. 
The  soul  of  honor  himself,  he  was  not  disposed  to  make 
allowances  for  any  one  who  seemed  to  him  to  deviate 
from  the  strait  and  narrow  path.  He  had  strong  opinions, 
vigorous  likes  and  dislikes,  and  some  equally  strong  prej- 
udices, all  very  similar  to  the  attributes  of  his  ancestors 
who  had  waged  the  great  rebellion  and  established  the  colony 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880 


267 


•i 


lissachusetts  Bay.  It  is  easy  in  these  laxer  days  to 
:l0ift1  out  the  defects  of  the  Puritan  qualities,  but  in  the 
ask  Analysis  it  is  upon  those  fundamental  qualities  that 
!p4p  jing  states  are  built.  In  later  years  Mr.  Lee  sometimes 
Ijkl  i  pt  approve  my  course  in  politics  and  never  hesitated 
p  express  to  me  his  disapproval,  but  he  always  made  me 
j fe't  lat  his  personal  affection  had  not  changed,  and  I  trust 


d1        rl 
lie!*1!!  owi 
s  fltroi 
iii 
dn\ 


268  EARLY  MEMORIES 

My  lectures  at  Harvard  led  me  to  make  an  elaborate 
study  of  manners,  customs,  and  social  conditions  in  the 
colonies  as  they  appeared  here  and  there  in  the  original 
sources.  This  involved  a  great  deal  of  labor  and  research, 
and  the  result  was  embodied  in  a  course  of  lectures  delivered 
before  the  Lowell  Institute.  The  lectures  were  so  far  suc- 
cessful that  Mr.  George  William  Curtis  wrote  to  me,  asking 
me  to  make  a  book  of  them  and  let  the  Harpers  publish  it. 
I  need  hardly  say  that  I  was  much  elated  by  this  proposi- 
tion and  promptly  closed  with  it.  But  I  spoiled  my  book 
by  adding  summaries  of  the  political  history  of  each  colony 
to  the  studies  of  manners  and  customs,  which  were  then 
fresh  and  original,  and  which  were  afterwards  found  use- 
ful by  other  writers  who  in  some  cases  omitted  to  mention 
their  indebtedness.  The  political  summaries,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  necessarily  condensed,  and  were  hopelessly  dry. 
They  made  the  book  long  and  cumbrous  and  defeated  the 
purpose  I  had  in  view,  which  was  to  give  a  popular  view  of 
the  colonies  as  they  actually  existed,  and  of  the  daily  life 
and  habits  of  the  people  who  separated  themselves  from 
England  and  founded  the  government  of  the  United  States. 

Still  I  had  some  reason  to  be  pleased  at  my  second  at- 
tempt at  authorship.  The  "Short  History  of  the  Colonies" 
sold  fairly  well  at  the  moment,  and  although  it  was  a  keen 
disappointment  to  me,  and  fell  far  below  what  I  had  hoped 
to  accomplish,  it  continued  to  sell  as  a  text-book  for  col- 
leges and  schools,  simply  because  it  had  the  merit  of  com- 
pleteness, and  was  as  accurate  as  I  could  make  it.  My  life 
of  Mr.  Cabot,  which  appeared  first,  had  an  unexpected  suc- 
cess. It  was  merely  a  contribution  to  the  materials  of  our 
history,  and  could  only  hope  to  interest  students  of  the 
period  and  historians.  But  it  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  Gail  Hamilton  (Miss  Abigail  Dodge),  who 
had  conceived  a  lively  dislike  for  me  because  in  1876,  the 


STARTING  IN  LIFE:   1873-1880  269 

year  prior  to  the  publication  of  the  book,  I  had  been  active 
in  opposing  Mr.  Elaine's  nomination  as  President.  She 
devoted  no  less  than  four  articles,  filling  eight  columns  of 
the  New  York  Tribune,  to  an  elaborate  review  of  the  biog- 
raphy, attacking  and  making  fun  of  me  and  my  respected 
ancestor  in  every  possible  way.  I  was  much  surprised,  but 
rather  pleased,  for  I  had  not  expected  so  much  attention 
from  any  one.  I  met  my  kinsman  Colonel  Thomas  Went- 
worth  Higginson  one  day  just  after  the  appearance  of  Miss 
Dodge's  article,  and  he  said  to  me:  "I  hope  you  do  not 
mind  Gail  Hamilton's  attack.  You  ought  to  be  very 
grateful.  I  wish  that  she  would  assail  one  of  my  books  in 
that  way,  for  I  have  observed,  and  you  will  by  experience 
learn  to  agree  with  me,  that  the  practical  value  of  a  critical 
notice  is  in  proportion  to  its  length,  and  not  in  what  is  said." 
Gail  Hamilton,  in  any  event,  sold  my  first  edition  for  me, 
and  greatly  to  my  surprise,  made  another  necessary. 

Apart  from  books  I  gradually  made  my  way  as  a  writer 
in  other  directions,  and  became  a  contributor  to  the  Nation 
and  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  as  well  as  to  other  periodicals. 
I  remember  well  the  profound  satisfaction  I  felt  when  I 
found  that  from  my  lectures  and  my  writings  I  had  made 
three  thousand  dollars  in  a  year,  and  had  thus  demonstrated 
my  ability  to  earn  my  own  living  and  to  take  care  of  my 
family  by  my  own  exertions  if  I  should  have  the  misfortune 
to  lose  all  my  property. 

The  preceding  pages,  I  fear,  give  the  impression  that  my 
life  during  these  years  was  all  work  and  no  play,  and  that 
it  had  no  lighter  or  more  lively  side.  This  would  be  a  very 
erroneous  idea  to  deduce  from  the  fact  that  I  have  given  a 
condensed  account  of  my  occupations,  which  were  of  great 
interest  to  me  and  of  very  slight  consequence  to  anybody 
else.  I  have  done  this  merely  to  get  myself  out  of  the  way, 
so  that  I  might  turn  to  an  account  of  some  of  the  people  I 


270  EARLY  MEMORIES 

knew  at  that  period — people  who,  I  think,  are  of  real  and 
general  interest. 

My  pursuits  in  Boston  and  Cambridge  led  to  many 
things:  to  various  associations  and  to  acquaintances  and 
friendships  in  which  I  found  much  pleasure.  In  1876  I  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society 
—one  of  the  youngest  members  ever  chosen,  I  believe — and 
I  not  only  took  a  keen  interest  in  its  meetings,  but  met 
there  many  men  of  distinction  in  letters  and  in  other  fields 
whom  I  had  as  a  boy  looked  up  to  from  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. When  I  became  a  member  Mr.  Robert  C.  Winthrop, 
of  whom  I  shall  have  something  to  say  later,  was  president. 
Dr.  Samuel  Greene,  who  happily  still  lives,  and  Dr.  George 
Ellis,  Mr.  Winthrop's  successor,  were,  apart  from  the  pres- 
ident, the  two  great  pillars  of  the  society,  for  which  their 
names  seemed  to  be  interchangeable  terms.  Dr.  Ellis  was  a 
retired  Unitarian  clergyman.  He  had  a  comfortable  fortune 
and  had  for  many  years  devoted  himself  to  historical  studies, 
possessing  strong  antiquarian  tastes.  He  was  an  authority 
on  the  history  of  our  Indians  and  widely  read  in  all  American 
history,  especially  that  portion  of  it  which  related  to  Boston 
and  Massachusetts.  Blest  with  a  very  retentive  memory, 
he  knew  all  the  traditions  of  the  town  and  endless  details  re- 
lating to  persons  and  families.  The  axiom  that  one  fact  is 
gossip  and  two  connected  facts  are  history  had  for  him  no 
terrors,  and  in  no  wise  diminished  his  liking  for  a  fact  or  an 
incident,  even  if  it  stood  solitary  and  detached. 

I  remember  well,  when  I  had  brought  down  on  myself 
the  wrath  of  certain  surviving  Webster  Whigs  because  I 
had  stated  in  my  biography  of  the  great  senator  that,  like 
the  younger  Pitt,  he  drank  more  at  times  than  was  good  for 
him,  Dr.  Ellis  told  me  the  following  anecdote.  On  the 
occasion  of  the  completion  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument 
Mr.  Webster  was  to  deliver  the  address,  and  Dr.  Ellis,  then 


STARTING  IN  LIFE  :  1873-1880  271 

pastor  of  the  Unitarian  Church  in  Charlestown,  was  the 
chaplain  of  the  day.  Preparatory  to  going  to  the  platform 
Mr.  Webster  came  to  the  house  of  Dr.  Ellis,  and  on  arriving 
said  he  would  like  something  to  drink  before  speaking.  Dr. 
Ellis  took  him  into  the  dining-room,  where  he  had  made 
some  little  preparation  for  his  guest.  Mr.  Webster  asked 
for  brandy,  and  taking  the  decanter,  filled  an  old-fashioned 
tumbler  full  to  the  brim  and  drank  it  off.  Then  he  went 
out  and  made  his  speech,  one  of  his  famous  addresses. 
After  the  ceremonies  he  returned  to  Dr.  Ellis 's  home  and 
drank  another  tumbler  full  of  raw  brandy,  and  after  a  little 
chat  departed.  Dr.  Ellis  said  that  so  far  as  he  could  see 
Mr.  Webster  was  not  affected  in  the  slightest  degree  by 
what  seem  to  the  average  man  very  potent  and  generous 
draughts  of  brandy  taken  in  the  morning  without  eating 
anything.  It  reminds  one  of  Pitt  and  Dundas  and  their 
four — or  was  it  six? — bottles  of  port  at  a  sitting. 

In  May,  1882, 1  met  Dr.  Ellis  at  the  house  of  his  brother, 
Dr.  Rufus  Ellis,  and  he  gave  me  an  account  of  a  visit  he 
made  to  New  York  with  John  Quincy  Adams.  His  story 
interested  me  so  much  that  I  wrote  it  down  when  I  went 
home.  My  note  runs  as  follows:  "It  was  in  1844.  The 
occasion  was  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  New  York  His- 
torical Society.  The  Massachusetts  Historical  Society  sent 
a  committee,  Mr.  Adams  being  the  oldest  and  Dr.  Ellis  the 
youngest  member.  At  the  cars  Mr.  Charles  Francis  Adams 
appeared  and  told  Dr.  Ellis  that  he  had  tried  to  persuade 
his  father  to  take  a  servant  but  the  old  gentleman,  then 
nearly  eighty,1  replied:  'I  can  take  care  of  myself  as  well  as 
you  can  of  yourself.  I  won't  have  a  servant/  Mr.  Charles 
Francis  Adams  therefore  asked  Dr.  Ellis  to  look  after  his 
father.  They  went  to  '  Bunker  V  on  the  Battery  and  had 
a  large  airy  room  together.  Mr.  Adams  would  have  no 

1  He  was  seventy-seven  years  old. 


272  EARLY  MEMORIES 

fire  (it  was  November)  but  insisted  on  having  the  window 
wide  open.  After  they  were  both  in  bed  Mr.  Adams  would 
begin  stories  and  narrate  all  sorts  of  experiences  full  of  fire 
and  vigor,  and,  Dr.  Ellis  said,  most  amusing;  that  he  had 
to  stuff  the  sheet  in  his  mouth  to  prevent  himself  from 
roaring  with  laughter.  After  talking  some  time  Mr.  Adams 
would  say:  'Now  it  is  time  to  go  to  sleep  and  I  am  going 
to  say  my  prayers.  I  shall  say  also  the  verse  my  mother 
taught  me  when  a  child.  I  have  never  failed  to  repeat  it 
every  night  of  my  life.  I  have  said  it  in  Holland,  Prussia, 
Russia,  England,  Washington  and  Quincy.  I  say  it  out 
loud  always  and  I  don't  mumble  it  either/  Then  he  would 
repeat  in  a  loud,  clear  voice: 

"  'Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep.' 

At  about  5  A.  M.  Mr.  Adams  would  arise,  and,  a  wood  fire 
being  laid,  would  get  from  his  trunk  an  old-fashioned  tinder- 
box — he  despised  the  recently  invented  lucifer  matches — 
and  would  strike  a  light,  kindle  the  fire  and  light  his  candle. 
Then  he  would  strip,  place  a  basin  of  water  on  the  floor  and 
sponge  himself  vigorously  from  head  to  foot.  Then  par- 
tially dressed,  sit  down  by  the  fire,  place  the  Bible  on  his 
knees,  and  holding  the  candle  in  one  hand,  expound  a  Psalm 
in  the  most  vigorous  manner  to  Dr.  Ellis.  At  the  banquet 
of  the  Historical  Society  Mr.  Adams  made  a  speech.  Jack- 
son had  recently  accused  him  of  lying  on  some  matter,  and 
had  said  that  at  the  period  in  question,  he,  Jackson,  had  had 
no  intercourse  with  Mr.  Adams.  Mr.  Adams  had  searched 
his  files  and  found  a  misspelt  acceptance  of  a  dinner  invita- 
tion from  Jackson  at  the  time  referred  to,  with  a  list  of  the 
guests  on  the  back.  He  began  his  speech  by  advising  young 
men  to  preserve  their  papers,  'for  some  day  they  might  be 
assailed  by  the  tongue  of  slander'  and  then  he  told  the  story 


STARTING  IN  LIFE  :  1873-3880  273 

and  produced  Jackson's  note.  Dr.  Ellis  said  that  word 
'slander'  rang  in  his  ears  to  this  day.  It  sounded  like  the 
crack  of  a  whip,  it  was  so  sharp,  clear,  and  stinging,  the  old 
man  pointing  his  forefinger  in  a  way  greatly  to  emphasize 
his  words." 

It  is  interesting  to  read  in  this  connection  Mr.  Adams's 
own  account  of  this  speech,  recorded  in  his  diary  for  Novem- 
ber 20,  1844:  "Mr.  Luther  Bradish,  late  Lieutenant  Gov- 
ernor of  New  York,  toasted  me — or  roasted  me — with  a 
speech  so  fulsome  that  it  overset  all  my  philosophy,  and  I 
stammered  a  reply;  the  only  palliation  was  its  brevity."  I 
wish  that  I  had  noted  down  more  of  the  interesting  anec- 
dotes I  heard  from  Dr.  Ellis,  for  he  told  them  well  and  had 
an  inexhaustible  memory,  but  this  is  the  only  one  of  which 
I  find  any  record. 

I  was  also  elected  at  this  time  a  member  of  the  Wednesday 
Evening  Club,  an  institution  more  than  a  century  old,  to 
which  many  of  our  Boston  worthies  in  successive  generations 
have  belonged.  During  the  whole  of  its  long  existence  it 
had  met  every  Wednesday  evening  in  the  winter  at  the 
house  of  each  member  in  turn.  The  club  had  one  singular 
merit — it  had  no  serious  purpose.  Talk  and  a  supper  con- 
stituted the  entire  proceedings.  Then  a  very  young  man, 
I  found  myself  the  companion  of  Mr.  Charles  Francis  Adams, 
the  elder,  Mr.  Robert  C.  Winthrop,  Dr.  S.  K.  Lothrop,  pas- 
tor emeritus  of  my  old  church  in  Brattle  Street,  Mr.  Jef- 
ferson Coolidge,  Mr.  Augustus  Lowell,  Mr.  Charles  Dalton, 
and  others  whom  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  be  associated 
with  in  that  way.  I  recall  one  evening  at  my  own  house 
when  I  had  at  supper  various  old  Madeiras  which  had  come 
to  me  from  my  great-grandfather  and  grandfather,  who  had 
possessed  a  very  fine  assortment  of  vintages  of  that  wine, 
so  much  prized  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Among  others  was  one  celebrated  in  its  day  called  "Essex 


274  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Junior,"  from  the  famous  ship,  and  of  the  vintage  of  1812. 
Very  little  of  it  I  think  was  left.  My  mind  being  full  just 
then  of  the  Federalists  and  their  history,  including  especially 
the  "Essex  Junto"  and  their  quarrels  with  John  and  John 
Quincy  Adams,  I  poured  out  a  glass  and  said  to  Mr.  Adams: 
"Here  is  some  'Essex  Junior/  a  good  old  Federalist  wine, 
and  you  know  their  wine  was  as  sound  as  their  principles." 
Mr.  Adams  smiled,  and  taking  the  glass  said:  "Their  wine 
was  always  fine  and  sound.  I  will  say  nothing  of  their 
principles." 

Two  years  after  my  election  to  the  Historical  Society  I 
was  chosen  a  member  of  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Sciences.  I  appreciated  the  honor,  but  never  went  to  the 
meetings,  which  were  wholly  occupied  with  scientific  ques- 
tions of  which  I  was  and  have  remained  painfully  ignorant. 

The  club  which  I  most  enjoyed,  however,  was  a  small 
dining  club  formed  by  some  of  my  friends  and  myself,  and 
which  long  since  disappeared  as  the  members  grew  older 
and  became  scattered  or  were  carried  off  by  death.  It  was 
called  the  Porcupine  Club,  and  chose  as  its  motto  the  Ho- 
ratian  line :  "  Populus  me  sibilat,  at  mihi  plaudo."  We  were 
not  lacking  in  youthful  conceit,  as  the  choice  of  a  motto 
indicates,  but  it  was  a  very  delightful  club  none  the  less. 
We  were  all  about  the  same  age,  young,  active,  ambitious, 
interested  in  law  and  politics  and  literature,  and  ready  to 
argue  about  any  conceivable  subject.  Among  the  members 
were  Lucius  Sargent,  Russell  Gray  and  Sturgis  Bigelow,  who 
had  been  my  schoolmates  and  companions  from  childhood; 
Brooks  Adams,  youngest  of  the  sons  of  Charles  Francis 
Adams,  whom  I  knew  in  college  and  with  whom  I  became 
very  intimate;  and  Howard  Stockton,  of  the  old  New  Jer- 
sey family,  who  had  been  in  the  regular  army  but  who  had 
resigned,  married,  and  settled  down  in  Boston  as  a  lawyer. 
These  were  the  members  with  whom  I  was  most  intimate,  and 


STARTING  IN  LIFE  :  1873-1880  275 

I  was  greatly  attached  to  them  all.  They  were  all  clever 
and  interesting  men.  Lucius  Sargent,  handsome,  fascina- 
ting, my  inseparable  companion  in  riding  and  hunting,  most 
loyal  of  friends,  died  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood  from 
injuries  incurred  by  a  fall  in  the  hunting  field.  The  others 
have  been  my  close  friends  through  life.  With  Brooks 
Adams  and  Russell  Gray  I  read  and  studied  Shakespeare; 
with  the  latter  I  kept  up  my  Latin  and  Greek,  losing  the 
last,  alas,  as  I  was  drawn  into  the  active  work  of  politics. 
But  then  we  all  had  much  the  same  pursuits.  I  was  chosen 
one  of  the  trustees  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum,  the  great  pro- 
prietary library  of  Boston;  Stockton  and  Gray  soon  joined 
me,  and  as  members  of  the  library  committee  we  had  much 
enjoyment  in  the  management  of  an  institution  which  ap- 
pealed strongly  to  our  tastes  for  books. 


CHAPTER  XII 
PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

I  HAVE  tried  thus  far,  as  I  have  already  said,  to  give  a 
mere  outline  of  the  occupations  of  these  formative  years, 
and  of  the  associations  and  clubs  to  which  I  belonged,  in 
order  to  open  the  way  for  some  account  of  the  men  I  came 
to  know  who  were  distinguished  in  public  lif  e  or  in  literature, 
and  who  are  of  infinitely  more  interest  than  anything  which 
concerned  me.  I  came  upon  the  stage  of  life  just  as  the 
remarkable  group  of  men  who  had  made  New  England  and 
Boston  famous  hi  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  were 
passing  off.  They  included  both  those  who  had  led  Massa- 
chusetts in  the  great  struggle  which  had  preceded  the  Civil 
War,  and  those  who  had  made  her  fame  in  literature. 

Let  me  begin  with  Charles  Sumner,  of  whom  I  have 
already  spoken,  and  who  is  inseparably  connected  with  all 
the  memories  of  my  childhood  and  youth.  Long  before  he 
entered  public  life  he  was  a  friend  of  my  grandfather  and 
grandmother  Cabot,  and  was  constantly  at  their  house. 
This  friendship  was  extended  to  my  father  and  mother,  and 
after  Mr.  Sumner  became  senator  my  father  was  one  of  his 
most  ardent  supporters.  When  Sumner  by  his  speeches 
against  slavery  had  alienated  respectable  and  conservative 
Boston,  when  all  the  Webster  Whigs,  the  "Silver  Greys," 
and  the  cotton  manufacturers,  when  business  and  society 
alike  turned  against  him,  he  was  practically  ostracized,  and 
the  people  among  whom  he  had  always  lived  closed  their 

276 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  277 

doors  to  him.  Henry  Adams  told  me  long  afterwards  that 
his  father's  house  and  my  father's  house  were  the  only  ones 
in  Boston  at  that  time,  so  far  as  he  knew,  which  remained 
open  to  Sumner.  The  intimacy  therefore  was  peculiarly 
close.  Whenever  Sumner  was  in  Boston  he  dined  constantly 
with  us,  and  every  summer  he  passed  six  weeks  or  more  at 
Nahant,  dividing  his  vacation  between  us  and  Mr.  Long- 
fellow, who  was  one  of  his  best  and  most  faithful  friends. 
He  is  therefore  to  me  almost  one  of  the  family,  as  I  look 
back  on  my  early  years,  and  he  continued  to  me  the  in- 
herited friendship.  After  my  father's  death  he  came  to 
the  house  and  stayed  with  us  just  as  before,  and  when  my 
sister  and  I  had  separate  houses  he  divided  his  time  between 
us.  I  wrote  to  ask  him  to  come  to  me  as  usual  the  summer 
after  I  returned  from  Europe,  and  I  give  his  reply  because 
it  shows  the  affectionate  side  of  Sumner's  character,  of 
which  I  think  the  world  knew  little. 

WASHINGTON — 

12th  April  73 

MY  DEAR  CABOT 

I  recognize  in  your  note  the  friendship  of  yr  father  and  grand- 
father, renewed  in  another  generation.  It  makes  me  feel  that  I 
am  not  entirely  alone  in  the  world. 

Thanks!  dear  Cabot,  you  touch  my  heart.  I  am  very  feeble; 
but  I  hope  to  reach  Nahant  &  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  you  so  kindly 
offer. 

Thanks  also  to  yr  charming  wife  and  to  yr  mother  too. 

Ever  sincerely 
Yrs 

CHARLES  SUMNER 

As  a  child  I  looked  at  him  with  awe  and  wonder,  with  a 
vague  idea  that  he  was  a  great  man,  although  I  did  not  very 
well  know  the  reason.  But  I  was  never  afraid  of  him,  for  he 
was  always  kindness  itself  to  me,  and  was  wont  to  ask  me 


278  EARLY  MEMORIES 

in  his  solemn  way  about  my  school  and  the  books  I  studied, 
of  which  he  knew  a  great  deal,  and  he  would  also  make 
serious  inquiries,  as  I  think  he  felt  bound  in  duty  to  do, 
about  my  sports  and  amusements,  of  which  he  knew  very- 
little.  It  was  not,  however,  the  misty  idea  that  he  was  a 
great  man  which  alone  made  Sumner  impressive  to  my  boy- 
ish imagination.  He  was  a  most  imposing  figure.  Tall, 
large,  not  regularly  handsome  in  features,  but  with  a  noble 
head  and  a  fine,  intellectual  face,  no  one  could  look  upon 
him  and  fail  to  be  struck  and  attracted  by  his  looks  and 
presence.  To  all  this  was  added  that  rarest  of  gifts,  a  very 
fine  voice,  deep  and  rich,  with  varied  tones,  and  always  a 
delight  to  the  ear.  If  ever  a  man  was  physically  formed — 

"The  applause  of  listening  Senates  to  command," 

it  was  Charles  Sumner. 

He  was  a  man  of  wide  learning.  He  had  read  every- 
thing, was  familiar  with  all  the  great  languages,  ancient 
and  modern,  had  the  power  of  devouring  books  with  ex- 
traordinary rapidity,  and  the  much  more  precious  gift  of 
remembering  everything  he  read,  whether  important  or  un- 
important. He  always  reminded  me  of  Macaulay  in  the 
extent  of  his  acquirements  and  in  the  way  in  which  upon 
any  subject  which  was  started  he  could  give  all  the  facts  and 
dates,  deluge  the  conversation  with  precedents  and  parallel 
cases,  and  recite  long  lists  of  names  if  opportunity  offered. 
He  was  nearly  contemporary  with  Macaulay,  and  I  have 
sometimes  wondered  whether  these  attributes  of  indis- 
criminate learning,  relentless  memory,  and  readiness  in 
pouring  out  vast  stores  of  knowledge  were  not,  in  a  greater 
or  lesser  degree,  characteristic  of  the  period.  Sumner  did 
not  monopolize  the  conversation,  as  Macaulay  is  said  to 
have  done,  nor  reduce  it  to  a  monologue,  nor  would  any  one 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  279 

have  said  of  him,  as  Sydney  Smith  said  of  Macaulay;  that 
he  had  " flashes  of  silence."  Sumner  was  often  silent,  en- 
tirely ready  to  listen  to  others,  and  never  burdensome  in 
conversation.  He  talked  well,  and  if  he  sometimes  talked 
at  length,  I  always  found  him  interesting,  which  is,  I  think, 
a  good  test,  for  a  young  man  is  easily  bored.  In  another  way 
Sumner's  learning  and  memory  were  less  fortunate  so  far  as 
he  was  personally  concerned.  They  led  him  very  naturally 
to  elaborate  and  lengthen  his  speeches,  not  at  all  for  display, 
but  merely  because  it  was  easy  and  agreeable  to  expand, 
and  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation.  The  result  was  that 
he  has  never,  as  it  seems  to  me,  obtained  the  recognition 
as  a  speaker  and  debater  to  which  his  presence,  his  deliv- 
ery, his  beautiful  voice,  his  accomplishments,  and  his  good 
English  entitled  him.  Those  who  heard  him  were  too  often 
weighed  down  by  the  mass  and  quantity  of  his  utterances; 
while  his  published  speeches  not  only  remain,  like  most 
other  speeches,  unread,  but  they  have  not,  I  think,  received 
in  history  the  attention  which  their  importance  and  their 
quality  alike  warrant  and  justify.  He  would  have  been 
saved  from  all  this  if  he  had  possessed  a  sense  of  humor, 
and  yet  had  he  been  gifted  with  much  humor  it  is  possible 
that  he  would  not  have  accomplished  the  noble  work  or 
played  the  great  part  which  fell  to  him  in  those  momentous 
years  of  the  antislavery  struggle  and  the  Civil  War.  The 
absence  of  a  keen  sense  of  humor  was  probably  the  defect 
of  his  qualities  and  his  virtues,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  the  fact  of  its  absence.  I  do  not  mean  to  suggest  that 
he  was  morose  or  solemn,  or  that  he  frowned  on  mirth. 
Quite  the  contrary  was  the  case.  He  was  always  genial 
and  kindly,  and  liked  to  see  others,  especially  young  people, 
enjoy  themselves;  but  his  sense  of  humor  in  the  broad  and 
true  sense  of  the  word  was  defective.  It  was  this  deficiency 
which  made  him  unable  sometimes  to  realize  the  effect  of 


280  EARLY  MEMORIES 

his  own  words.  Mr.  Schurz  told  me,  I  remember,  of  an 
incident  which  perfectly  illustrates  this  point.  It  was  at 
the  time  of  their  quarrel  with  Grant.  Sumner  was  prepar- 
ing to  make  a  speech  in  the  Senate  upon  some  phase  of  the 
administration  policy.  Mr.  Schurz  talked  the  speech  over 
with  Sumner  and  begged  him  not  to  indulge  in  any  bitter 
attacks  upon  the  President,  and  urged  him  to  be  temperate 
in  his  language,  as  violence  would  do  more  harm  than  good. 
Sumner  agreed  with  him,  and  promised  to  be  very  careful. 
When  he  spoke,  Schurz  was  horrified  to  find  as  the  speech 
proceeded  that  Sumner  had  apparently  utterly  forgotten 
his  promise.  He  launched  out  into  the  invective  of  which 
he  was  a  master,  and  denounced  Grant  bitterly  and  savagely. 
When  he  had  concluded,  he  turned  to  Schurz  and  said : 
"You  saw  I  was  very  moderate  and  temperate,  and  I  hope 
you  think  that  I  was  wise  not  to  be  more  severe. "  Schurz 
said  that  after  this  remark  he  saw  how  useless  it  was  to 
expostulate,  because  Sumner  evidently  could  not  perceive 
the  force  of  his  own  words.  His  observation  about  his  own 
moderation  was  made  in  perfectly  good  faith,  and  disclosed, 
of  course,  a  rather  alarming  lack  of  humor.  This  came  out 
amusingly  in  much  less  important  ways.  Mr.  Longfellow, 
who  was  always  devoted  to  Sumner,  but  at  the  same  time 
entirely  conscious  of  his  deficiency  in  humor,  told  me  that 
when  the  "Biglow  Papers"  were  published  Sumner  was 
staying  at  his  house.  It  was  a  rainy  afternoon,  and  Mr. 
Longfellow  was  obliged  to  go  out,  leaving  Sumner  stretched 
on  the  sofa  reading  Lowell's  volume.  When  he  returned,  he 
asked  Sumner  how  he  liked  the  poems,  and  Sumner  replied: 
"They  are  admirable,  very  good  indeed;  but  why  does  he 
spell  his  words  so  badly?"  Mr.  Longfellow  attempted  to 
explain  that  the  poems  were  purposely  written  in  the  New 
England  dialect,  but  Sumner  could  not  understand. 

One  summer  at  Nahant  I  dined  at  Mr.  Longfellow's 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  281 

with  Sumner  and  some  others.  Sumner  was  a  collector  of 
china,  about  which  he  knew  a  great  deal,  as  he  did  about 
many  other  things.  He  told  us  a  story  of  his  going  to  see 
Lord  Exmouth's  collection  and  how  fine  it  was.  When  he 
was  taking  his  leave  Lord  Exmouth  gave  him  two  rare  plates 
and  offered  to  send  them  to  his  lodgings,  but  Sumner  would 
not  be  parted  from  his  prize  and  insisted  on  taking  them 
home  with  him  in  his  cab.  When  he  had  concluded  his 
story,  which  was  interesting  but  long  in  narration,  "Tom" 
Appleton,  Mr.  Longfellow's  brother-in-law,  who  was  present, 
said:  "A  pleasing  tale  illustrated  with  two  plates."  Every- 
body laughed,  and  Sumner,  looking  about  most  good-na- 
turedly, said:  "What  are  you  all  laughing  at?  I  suppose 
Appleton  is  up  to  some  mischief,  but  my  story  is  quite  true." 

Yet,  although  Sumner  lacked  humor,  he  could  say  good 
things  himself,  which,  if  not  humorous,  had  both  keenness 
and  wit.  He  was  staying  at  our  house  shortly  after  the  fall 
of  the  second  empire  and  the  establishment  of  the  French 
republic.  He  had  just  returned  from  Paris,  where  Gam- 
betta  had  called  upon  him,  and  he  gave  us  a  most  interesting 
account  of  their  conversation,  in  which  Gambetta  had  dis- 
cussed the  whole  situation  and  had  asked  Sumner's  counsel 
and  advice.  He  said:  "Gambetta  rose  to  go  and  as  he 
took  my  hand  he  said:  'Ah,  M.  Sumner  il  nous  faut  un 
Jefferson!'  I  replied:  'Trouvez  un  Washington,  M.  Gam- 
betta, et  un  Jefferson  arrivera."1  Nothing  could  have  been 
better. 

In  the  same  way,  although  he  was  capable  of  being  so 
bitter  in  denunciation  and  would  use  language  of  the  most 
savage  kind  about  opponents  or  about  those  who  had 
wronged  him  without  in  the  least  realizing  the  wounding 
force  of  his  words,  no  man  had  better  manners  in  daily  life, 
manners  at  once  kindly,  stately,  and  dignified,  and  he  could 
do  a  courteous  action  in  the  most  graceful  way.  A  little 


282  EARLY  MEMORIES 

incident  connected  with  Mr.  Motley's  appointment  as  min- 
ister to  England  illustrates  this  quality  in  Sumner  very  well. 
It  was  known  that  Mr.  Motley's  name  was  being  consid- 
ered by  the  President,  but  there  were  other  aspirants  and 
the  usual  speculation  and  uncertainty  were  rife.  At  last 
the  President  told  Sumner  that  he  would  appoint  Motley. 
That  same  evening  Motley  dined  with  Sumner.  There  was 
a  large  party,  and  although  there  was  conversation  about  the 
English  mission  no  one  had  any  idea  that  the  question  had 
been  settled.  When  the  dinner  had  ended  and  the  cloth 
was  removed  Sumner  raised  his  glass  and,  looking  at  Mr. 
Motley,  said  in  the  quietest,  most  matter-of-fact  way: 
"When  does  your  Excellency  intend  to  sail  for  Eng- 
land?" 

Coupled  with  his  deficiency  in  a  sense  of  humor  and 
akin  to  it  was  a  curious  simplicity  of  nature.  He  was  not 
in  the  least  arrogant,  to  my  thinking,  although  I  have  heard 
arrogance  charged  against  him.  He  was  anything  but  con- 
ceited, but  he  had  vanity — "the  most  philosophical  of  those 
feelings  we  are  taught  to  despise,"  as  Mr.  Justice  Holmes 
has  said — in  a  marked  degree.  So  complete  were  his  credu- 
lity and  simplicity  in  this  respect  that  designing  men  could 
easily  take  advantage  of  him.  It  was  not  the  vanity  which 
offends,  for  it  was  too  frank,  too  obvious,  too  innocent  to 
give  offence,  but  it  made  him  an  easy  prey  to  those  who 
wished  to  profit  by  it.  When  in  Washington  I  always  dined 
with  Sumner,  and  on  one  occasion  Caleb  Gushing  and  John 
W.  Forney  were  both  there;  I  think  he  always  had  some  one 
at  his  hospitable  table,  as  he  disliked  being  alone.  I  remem- 
ber my  surprise  at  seeing  Caleb  Gushing.  In  our  Free  Soil, 
Republican  household  his  name  was  anathema  as  a  pro- 
slavery  Massachusetts  Democrat  who  had  sold  himself  to 
the  South  for  a  cabinet  office.  I  knew  nothing  of  his  career. 
I  only  had  the  vague  notion,  acquired  in  childhood,  that  he 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  283 

was  one  of  the  wicked,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  it 
was  possible  for  me  to  meet  him  in  any  house  to  which  I 
should  be  invited,  least  of  all  in  Sumner's.  I  was  therefore 
surprised  to  find  a  well-bred  man,  with  a  keen,  intellectual 
face,  who  made  himself  most  agreeable.  It  was  really  quite 
natural  that  he  should  have  been  at  Sumner's,  for  his  last 
gyration  had  brought  him  to  a  strong  support  of  the  Union 
cause,  of  which  I,  as  a  boy,  had  been  profoundly  ignorant. 
I  recall  nothing  of  his  conversation  except  that  it  was  inter- 
esting and  tinged  with  a  certain  cool  cynicism  which  I  now 
know  was  characteristic  of  the  man.  One  thing,  and  only 
one,  that  he  said  has  clung  to  my  memory.  The  talk  turned 
upon  Grant,  who  had  just  been  elected,  and  was  a  warm 
friend  of  the  former  attorney-general.  Gushing  said: 
"When  the  War  broke  out  I  remarked  to  a  friend  that  I 
wished  I  could  pick  out  the  subaltern  in  the  Army  who 
would  be  the  next  President  of  the  United  States  and  now 
here  he  is." 

The  other  guest,  Forney,  was  very  different.  He  de- 
voted himself  to  deluging  his  host  with  gross  flattery,  which 
the  subject  of  the  eulogy  received  smilingly  and  without 
deprecation.  I  had  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
charged  with  affection  and  admiration  for  Sumner,  but  this 
sort  of  adulation  I  had  never  heard,  and  I  sat  by  in  silent 
amazement,  wondering  greatly,  feeling  uncomfortable,  and 
sympathizing  with  Sumner,  who,  I  thought,  must  feel  un- 
comfortable too,  a  belief  in  which  I  was  quite  mistaken. 
Forney  knew  quite  well  what  he  was  about,  and  had  defi- 
nite, practical  purposes  to  serve.  Whether  the  stories  then 
current  were  true  or  not,  there  is  no  doubt  that  intimacy 
with  Sumner  was  valuable  to  Forney,  and  he  held  his  friend- 
ship with  him  by  a  flattery  which  only  a  nature  of  the 
utmost  simplicity  and  vanity  could  have  accepted  without 
suspicion  or  revolt.  I  saw  another  instance  of  the  same 


284  EARLY  MEMORIES 

weakness  with  a  man  who  had  no  private  end  to  serve. 
On  several  occasions  when  Sumner  dined  at  our  house  in 
Boston  my  mother  asked  Wendell  Phillips  and  no  one  else 
to  meet  him.  Wendell  Phillips  was  a  most  delightful  man 
in  private  life  and  at  a  family  dinner  of  the  kind  to  which 
I  refer.  But  I  was  amazed  at  the  way  in  which  he  seemed 
to  flatter  Sumner,  and  still  more,  as  in  the  case  of  Forney, 
at  the  manner  in  which  Sumner  accepted  it  with  a  pleased 
smile  and  without  a  murmur  of  dissent.  Phillips,  as  I 
thought  at  the  time,  did  this  either  because  he  liked  to 
please  Sumner,  or  possibly  with  an  underlying  love  of  mis- 
chief, of  which  he  was  entirely  capable,  and  which  afforded 
him  a  certain  cynical  enjoyment  by  the  exhibition  of  a 
human  and  harmless  weakness.  I  have  since  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  what  Phillips  said  was  not  only  genuine, 
but  that  he  did  it  because  he  knew  how  much  it  would 
gratify  the  recipient  of  his  praise.  For  Sumner  Phillips  had 
a  very  real  affection  and  one  which  I  think  never  wavered. 
Among  many  notes  from  Phillips  to  my  mother  I  select  two 
which  show  his  love  for  Sumner  in  a  way  which  puts  any  sus- 
picion of  mere  flattery  or  of  a  mischievous  wish  to  show 
Sumner's  simplicity  of  nature  out  of  the  range  of  possibili- 
ties. 

DEAR  MRS  LODGE 

Having  told  you  one  incident  of  Arch  &  the  workingmen's 
visit  to  Sumner,  it  is  but  fair  to  them  to  add  another,  which  he 
will  never  tell  you,  but  I  think  it  gave  him  a  moment's  pleasure. 

Arch  had  been  insisting  on  the  evils  England  suffered  from  the 
long  tenure  of  office,  hereditary  &c.  Sumner  was  answering, 
"Well,  Sir,  we  cure  that  here.  If  a  Governor  misbehaves  we 
leave  him  out  next  year;  if  a  Representative  votes  wrong,  we  let 
him  stay  at  home  next  winter.  We  only  trust  men  a  year  at  a 
time." 

Of  course  the  whole  crowd  were  listening  in  silence. — And  as 
he  paused  one  of  the  workingmen  broke  in — "Yes,  Mr  Arch,  we 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  285 

only  elect  one  Senator  for  life.''  All  applauded  and  Charles  ac- 
knowledged it  with  a  smile.  A  graceful  compliment  was  not  it? 
— and  deserved. 

Yrs 
7  Nov — 73  WENDELL  PHILLIPS 

MY  DEAR  MRS  LODGE — 

You  are  very  kind  to  remember  me  and  offer  me  a  share  in  so 
pleasant  a  meeting.  I  shall  certainly  be  with  you  and  we  can 
exchange  congratulations  that  our  old  commonwealth  honors  her- 
self so  much  by  this  flood-tide  of  admiring  pride  in  her  oldest 
public  servant  and  honestest. 

He  must  surely  be  touched  by  this  evidence  of  public  confi- 
dence and  loving  interest.  It  will  strengthen  him  for  a  brave 
winter  in  Washington. 

No  matter  that  you  forgot  the  place  where  I  live,  since  you've 
never  forgot  the  place  where  any  hard  duty  called  you, 
Very  sincerely 

Yrs 

50  Essex  St.  WENDELL  PHILLIPS 

20  Nov.— 

I  have  thus  far  spoken  chiefly  of  Sumner's  foibles  be- 
cause it  would  be  impossible  to  understand  him  or  know 
him  without  realizing  them.  But  these  peculiarities  which 
I  have  described,  although  used  against  him  by  his  enemies, 
were  only  foibles  and  nothing  more.  They  did  not  really 
affect  the  essential  greatness  of  the  man.  Sumner  was  a 
great  man  and  did  a  great  work  throughout  the  stormy 
times  in  which  he  lived.  Justice  in  many  instances  has  not 
been  done  to  him,  and  even  among  those  who  have  praised 
him  he  has  not  always  been  rightly  praised,  because  both 
the  praise  and  the  blame  have  been  awarded  on  what  seems 
to  me  a  mistaken  view  of  his  life  and  work.  A  man  should 
be  judged  and  criticised  for  what  he  was,  not  because  he  was 
not  something  else  or  because  he  failed  to  be  what  he  was 
not  and  never  tried  to  be. 


286  EARLY  MEMORIES 

Sumner  by  nature  was  a  dreamer,  a  man  of  meditation, 
a  man  of  books,  and  a  lover  of  learning.  By  the  circum- 
stances of  his  time  and  by  the  hand  of  fate  he  was  projected 
into  a  career  of  intense  action  and  fierce  struggle.  There 
he  played  a  great  part,  but  his  nature  was  not  changed. 
He  still  remained  at  bottom  a  dreamer  and  a  man  of  books. 
Everything  which  interested  him,  whether  great  or  small,  he 
approached  from  the  precincts  and  with  the  habits  of  the 
library  and  in  the  manner  of  a  deep,  delving  student.  I  have 
spoken  of  his  love  for  china  and  porcelains.  He  was  fond 
of  them,  and  had  made  quite  a  collection  not  only  of  exam- 
ples of  European  manufacture,  but  of  Chinese  and  Japanese 
work,  at  that  period  little  understood  or  appreciated.  Yet 
this  interest  which  to  most  persons  is  merely  a  taste  or  an 
amusement  was  to  Sumner  a  subject  of  research  and  study. 
How  good  his  judgment  was  I  cannot  undertake  to  say,  but 
he  had  mastered  all  the  learning  and  read  all  the  books  on 
the  subject,  and  could  talk  about  the  history  and  processes 
of  manufacture  and  the  famous  makers  of  pottery  or  por- 
celain by  the  hour  together.  As  a  matter  of  course,  Sumner 
had  a  good  library  and  knew  about  books,  but  he  also  be- 
came interested  in  bindings,  and  I  remember  hearing  him 
on  more  than  one  occasion  discourse  about  bindings  and 
celebrated  binders  in  a  manner  which  would  lead  a  casual 
listener  to  think  that  bookbinding  had  been  the  study  and 
occupation  of  his  life.  It  was  the  same  in  regard  to  pictures, 
architecture,  and  sculpture,  all  subjects  in  which  he  was  in- 
terested. It  was  inevitable  that  he  should  carry  the  same 
habits  and  propensities  into  the  serious  work  of  his  life,  and 
that  whenever  he  made  a  speech  on  any  subject  his  learning 
should  flow  out  copiously  upon  every  topic.  This  led,  as 
I  have  already  said,  to  his  overloading  his  speeches  when 
he  should  have  used  the  stores  of  his  reading  and  memory 
with  extreme  reserve,  and  solely  for  illustration  or  decora- 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  287 

tion.  His  wide  and  accurate  historical  knowledge  as  well 
as  his  legal  training  fitted  him  peculiarly  for  the  treatment 
of  international  questions,  and  the  important  position  of 
chairman  of  the  Senate  Committee  on  Foreign  Relations, 
which  he  held  so  long,  attained  to  greater  authority  in  his 
hands  than  in  those  of  any  other  of  the  many  able  men 
who  have  occupied  the  same  place.  The  work  of  that 
committee  was  not  only  agreeable  to  Sumner,  but  was  pe- 
culiarly suited  to  him,  and  he  was  one  of  the  guiding  forces 
in  our  foreign  policy  during  the  trying  and  difficult  years  of 
the  Civil  War.  He  was  intense  in  his  Americanism,  and  all 
the  quite  unequalled  attention  which  he  had  received  abroad, 
especially  in  England,  never  affected  him  in  the  slightest 
degree  where  the  interests  of  his  own  country  were  con- 
cerned. He  was  severely  criticised  for  his  extravagant  ad- 
vocacy of  the  untenable  Indirect  Claims,  which  came  so 
near  to  wrecking  the  Geneva  Arbitration.  But  I  have  al- 
ways thought  that  Sumner's  deliberate  purpose  was  to 
break  up  the  arbitration,  because  he  did  not  believe  that  it 
was  the  wise  course  for  the  United  States  to  take.  Sumner 
felt  deeply  the  conduct  of  England  during  our  Civil  War. 
The  very  fact  of  his  many  friendships  in  England  made  his 
resentment  all  the  keener.  When  the  war  closed  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  time  had  come  for  a  final  settlement,  and 
that  settlement  to  him  meant  the  acquisition  of  Canada. 
Mr.  Charles  Francis  Adams  has  shown  recently  how  near 
we  were  to  this  solution,  for  at  that  period  England  had 
none  of  the  feeling  about  her  colonies  which  she  has  to-day. 
The  statesmen  of  the  extreme  Free  Trade  school  were  in  the 
ascendant,  and  the  general  feeling  was  one  of  indifference 
to  the  colonies,  coupled  with  a  readiness  to  let  them  go  if 
they  so  desired.  Sumner's  policy  was  to  refuse  all  arbitra- 
tion with  England  as  to  the  " Alabama"  depredations  and 
the  injuries  she  had  inflicted  upon  us  and  to  take  Canada 


288  EARLY  MEMORIES 

as  an  indemnity,  thereby  closing  the  door  to  all  future  diffi- 
culties with  Great  Britain.  He  believed  the  transfer  would 
be  peaceable,  but  with  the  greatest  army  of  tried  and  vet- 
eran soldiers  then  existent,  and  an  equally  powerful  navy, 
he  was  quite  prepared  for  a  war  which  could  have  had  but 
one  issue.  The  policy  was  feasible,  and  if  we  had  taken 
Canada  at  that  time,  many  questions  would  have  been 
laid  to  rest  forever.  We  accepted  arbitration,  an  apology, 
and  fifteen  millions  of  money.  Perhaps  it  was  the  wisest 
as  it  was  certainly  the  safest  course,  but  Sumner's  policy 
was  none  the  less  strong,  intelligent,  far-seeing,  and  final. 
In  regard  to  Cuba,  when  the  insurrection  broke  out  which 
culminated  in  the  affair  of  the  "  Virginius,"  Sumner  declared 
the  presence  of  Spain  in  the  Western  Hemisphere  to  be  an 
anachronism.  He  did  not  press  for  active  measures  against 
Spain,  because  there  were  still  slaves  in  Cuba,  and  that 
chilled  his  sympathy.  But  he  saw  the  true  situation  before 
others  had  grasped  it,  and  declared  that  what  was  done 
thirty  years  later  was  inevitable  and  ought  to  come  to  pass. 
He  was  a  generation  ahead  of  his  time  in  his  views  of  our 
relations  to  Spain,  and  of  the  necessary  result  which  was 
bound  to  come  because  Spanish  rule  was  an  anachronism 
in  America. 

It  was  the  same  in  regard  to  the  treatment  of  the  South 
when  the  war  closed.  Sumner  believed  that  the  true  course 
was  to  divide  the  States  lately  in  rebellion  into  military  dis- 
tricts, without  regard  to  State  lines,  and  give  them  for  a 
time  a  purely  military  government.  This  opinion  came  from 
no  fanatical  hatred  of  the  South,  for  Sumner  was  the  most 
generous  of  victors,  and  was  censured  by  the  Massachusetts 
Legislature  for  proposing  to  erase  from  the  battle-flags  of 
the  United  States  the  names  of  Union  victories,  because  he 
believed  in  removing  all  outward  signs  of  the  triumph  of 
one  American  over  another.  Again  he  was  ahead  of  his 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  289 

time,  and  his  plan  for  temporary  military  government  arose 
from  his  belief  that  it  would  be  best  in  the  end  for  all  con- 
cerned. The  only  real  alternative  to  Sumner's  policy  was 
to  let  the  Southern  States  come  back  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. For  this  high  trust  the  South  at  the  moment  showed 
itself  unfit,  because  the  Legislatures  seemed  to  have  learned 
nothing,  and  began  at  once  by  the  device  of  peonage  laws 
to  thrust  the  negro  back  into  practical  slavery.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  North  thought  military  government  too 
extreme  and  too  much  at  variance  with  American  principles. 
The  result  was  that  neither  the  one  plan  nor  the  other  was 
adopted,  and  so  we  had  reconstruction  based  on  negro  rule 
with  all  its  failures  and  miseries.  Sumner's  policy  would 
have  spared  the  country  all  this,  and  it  would  have  been  bet- 
ter for  the  South,  which  would  have  infinitely  preferred  the 
government  of  the  army  to  that  which  we  forced  upon  them. 
Sumner  was  a  statesman  in  the  largest  sense,  although 
not  a  legislator  who  drafted  laws  and  attended  to  legislative 
details.  Still  less  was  he  a  politician,  for  he  cared  nothing 
for  politics,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word.  Yet 
it  is  not  upon  his  statesmanship  or  upon  his  power  as  an 
orator  that  his  fame  depends.  Sumner's  greatness  rests 
securely  on  the  fact  that  he  was  the  representative  of  an 
idea.  He  stood  for  human  freedom.  He  was  among  the 
first  of  those  who  have  been  well  called  the  human  rights 
statesmen  of  that  period.  He  was  one  of  the  great  leaders 
among  the  men  of  1848  when  the  movement  for  political 
liberty  swept  over  the  world  of  Western  civilization,  and 
when  it  was  believed  that  in  political  liberty,  manhood  suf- 
frage, and  republican  government,  whether  in  Italy  or 
Austria,  in  France  or  Germany,  or  among  the  negroes  of  the 
South,  would  be  found  a  cure  for  all  the  ills  and  miseries  of 
mankind.  It  was  a  noble  faith,  its  champions  did  a  great 
work  for  humanity.  Their  success  did  not  bring  a  panacea 


290  EARLY  MEMORIES 

for  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,  for;  alas,  there  is  none, 
but  they  made  the  lot  of  mankind  better,  and  rendered  an 
inestimable  service  to  their  fellow  men.  Sumner  was  one 
of  the  greatest  among  them  in  his  devotion  to  the  cause. 
Not  only  by  what  he  said,  but  by  what  he  suffered,  and, 
above  all,  by  what  he  was  in  character  and  attainments, 
was  he  enabled  to  strike  the  most'  deadly  blows  at  slavery 
ever  dealt  up  to  that  time  in  Congress.  He  had  the  spirit 
of  the  martyr  and  the  crusader.  He  was  entirely  fearless. 
He  never  would  compromise,  retreat,  or  flinch.  He  was 
just  the  man  needed  in  the  conflict  which  culminated  in 
the  ten  years  preceding  the  Civil  War,  and  during  that 
period  he  fills  a  large  place. 

As  I  saw  him  he  was  a  lovable  man.  He  was  kindness 
itself,  gentle  and  affectionate  in  our  household,  of  which  he 
was  so  often  a  part.  But  as  I  look  back  on  that  vanished 
time  I  see  now,  that  which  I  vaguely  felt  then,  what  a  pa- 
thetic, almost  tragic,  figure  he  was.  He  was  singularly 
lonely.  He  had  no  near  relations  after  the  death  of  his 
brother  George.  His  marriage  proved  most  unhappy,  and 
led  to  separation  and  renewed  isolation.  He  never  fully 
recovered  from  the  Brooks  assault,  and  the  disease  of  the 
heart,  which  finally  caused  his  death,  produced  acute  suf- 
fering. Yet  he  never  murmured.  He  bore  his  loneliness 
and  physical  pain  alike  in  silence  and  with  a  smiling  face. 
He  had  high  moral  courage,  and  never  cried  out  under  the 
blows  of  fate.  His  career  is  part,  and  a  large  part,  of  the 
history  of  his  time.  I  have  no  thought  of  rewriting  it 
here  in  these  rambling  recollections,  but  I  wish  to  give 
the  impression  which  was  left  to  me  by  close  association 
with  a  remarkable  man  in  the  days  of  childhood  and  youth, 
and  of  whom  I  had  that  nearer  view  which  sometimes 
brings  a  better  understanding  than  official  records  or  the 
researches  of  the  historians. 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  291 

There  were  no  others  of  the  antislavery  leaders,  the 
"human  rights"  statesmen  who  came  into  control  of  Massa- 
chusetts politics  during  the  fifties,  and  who  played  a  large 
part  in  the  history  of  the  United  States,  whom  I  knew  and 
saw  closely,  as  was  the  case  with  Sumner.  Henry  Wilson, 
Sumner's  colleague,  was  little  more  than  a  name  to  me  until 
I  met  him  in  Washington  when  he  was  vice-president,  and 
shortly  before  his  death.  I  there  had  a  long  talk  with  him. 
He  knew  about  me  and  about  the  friendship  of  my  family 
with  Sumner,  and  he  was  most  kind  and  pleasant.  I  noted 
in  a  diary  the  fact  of  my  talk  with  him,  but  made  no  record 
of  the  conversation,  which  has  now  entirely  escaped  my 
memory.  I  remember  very  well,  however,  just  how  he 
looked:  large,  fair,  with  a  florid  complexion,  a  pleasant  voice, 
and  agreeable  manner.  He  was  a  man  of  remarkable  quali- 
ties, for  he  had  worked  his  way  up  from  as  low  a  starting- 
point  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  It  was  said  that  he  was 
the  son  of  English  gypsies,  and  that  his  name  was  really 
Coldbath,  but  he  had  no  trace  of  the  gypsy  look,  and  prob- 
ably came  from  one  of  those  families  of  English  stock  who 
are  confused  with  the  true  Romany  merely  because  they 
lead  a  wandering  gypsy  life.  However  this  may  be,  he  was 
born  in  the  utmost  obscurity  and  poverty.  He  had  no 
chance  for  any  schooling,  and  no  friends  to  help  him.  He 
learned  the  trade  of  shoemaker,  made  his  own  living,  edu- 
cated himself,  entered  politics,  rose  to  be  one  of  the  leaders 
of  the  Republican  party  in  Massachusetts,  then  became 
senator,  and  died  vice-president  of  the  United  States.  He 
was  not  only  able  to  hold  his  own  in  the  great  positions  he 
filled,  but,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  there  was  no  trace  of  rough- 
ness about  him  or  of  that  almost  ferocious  self-assertion 
which  is  so  apt  to  appear  in  men  who  have  fought  their 
way  from  humble  beginnings  and  through  great  difficulties 
up  to  success.  He  was  dignified  and  simple  in  manner,  and 


292  EARLY  MEMORIES 

there  was  nothing  to  suggest  to  any  one  who  saw  him  as  I 
did  that  he  was  not  to  the  manner  bom,   i 

Governor  Andrew  I  never"  really  knewj  although  as  a 
child  I  saw  him  at  his  home.  I  knew  his  family  well,  and  his 
son,  who  died  comparatively  young,  was  a  close  friend  of 
mine  for  many  years.  We  served  together  in  the  Legislature 
and  in  Congress,  and  although  we  parted  politically  in  1884, 
our  friendship  was  never  in  the  slightest  degree  interrupted. 
He  was  very  quick  and  clever,  a  delightful  companion,  a 
loyal  friend,  but  he  did  not  possess  his  f ather's  unusual  force, 
his  depth  of  feeling,  or  his  remarkable  ability.  I  never,  as 
I  have  just  said,  really  knew  the  governor,  for  he  died 
while  I  was  still  a  boy,  soon  after  the  war,  worn  out  by  his 
labors  during  those  terrible  years.  Yet  Governor  Andrew 
remains  in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  most  vivid  figures  of  my 
early  days,  just  as  he  was  one  of  the  commanding  figures  of 
the  time,  a  great  war  governor,  a  pillar  of  support  to  Lin- 
coln and  the  Union  cause.  I  see  him  now  far  more  clearly 
than  many  persons  whom  I  knew  much  better.  My  vision 
of  him  is  always  as  he  stood  reviewing  the  troops  when 
they  marched  past  the  State  House,  and  I  used  to  look  after 
him,  when  I  passed  him  in  the  street,  with  wondering  eyes. 
To  me,  who  had  never  been  beyond  the  bounds  of  Boston 
and  its  neighborhood,  he  seemed  the  incarnation  of  the  gov- 
ernment, of  freedom,  and  of  the  Union.  A  short,  heavily 
built,  squarely  solid  figure,  as  I  described  him  in  an  earlier 
chapter,  with  a  large  head  covered  with  tight-curling  light 
hair,  a  smooth  round  face,  and  inseparable  spectacles,  he 
was  not  physically  the  type  of  man  who  would  by  his  looks 
appeal  to  a  boy's  imagination  as  a  hero.  Yet  to  me  he 
was  unquestionably  heroic.  I  cannot  recall  a  word  that  he 
uttered  when,  a  small  unit  in  the  crowd,  I  heard  him  speak. 
I  was  moved  because  everybody  about  him  was  moved  by 
what  he  said,  and  the  contagion  of  a  crowd  is  very  powerful. 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  293 

Still,  the  fact  of  the  impression  remained,  and  I  now  explain 
it  by  the  man's  real  greatness,  by  his  sincerity  of  soul,  and, 
above  all,  by  his  emotional  force,  which  carried  his  audi- 
ences away  and  which  struck  so  deep  into  my  boyish  im- 
agination that  his  image  has  never  been  effaced,  or  even 
dimmed. 

Dr.  S.  G.  Howe  was  another  of  the  antislavery  lead- 
ers whom  I  cannot  be  said  to  have  known,  but  who  stands 
out  sharply  in  my  memory.  Both  he  and  Mrs.  Howe  were 
friends  of  my  mother,  to  whom  as  a  young  girl  Dr.  Howe's 
expedition  to  Greece  and  his  part  in  the  war  of  liberation 
made  him  appear,  as  indeed  he  was,  a  romantic  hero,  with 
the  temper  and  courage  of  a  crusading  knight.  I  think  I 
saw  him  first  when  I  was  fourteen  years  old  and  went  to  a 
picnic  at  the  Howes'  place  near  Newport.  I  looked  at  him 
with  eager  curiosity,  for  I  had  not  only  heard  of  his  exploits 
and  wild  adventures  in  behalf  of  Greek  liberty,  but  the 
story  of  Laura  Bridgman  was  familiar  to  me,  and  I  had 
always  wanted  to  see  the  man  who  had  worked  such  wonders. 
Dr.  Howe,  as  so  seldom  happens,  fully  satisfied  my  imagina- 
tion. He  was  a  most  striking-looking  man,  hawk-eyed, 
hawk-nosed,  with  the  expression  of  wild  daring  which  I  ex- 
pected. The  Laura  Bridgman  side  was  not  apparent  to  a 
small  boy  staring  at  the  hero  of  many  adventures.  Yet 
that  was  really  the  dominant  side,  for  if  ever  a  man  lived 
who,  without  a  thought  of  self,  devoted  his  life  to  helping 
his  fellow  men — the  poor,  the  deformed,  the  crippled  in 
mind  and  body,  all  the  heavy-laden  of  our  struggling  human- 
ity— it  was  Dr.  Howe.  That  such  a  man  should  cast  him- 
self into  the  movement  to  free  the  slaves  was  inevitable. 
He  had  no  love  for  politics,  but  he  fought  the  battle  of  the 
slaves  politically  and  in  every  other  way,  on  the  plains  of 
Kansas  and  in  the  streets  of  Boston.  He  was  one  of  Sum- 
ner's  closest  and  most  devoted  friends,  a  friend  who  never 


294  EARLY  MEMORIES 

flattered  and  was  all  the  more  valuable  to  Sumner  on  that 
account. 

Anson  Burlingame  I  never  knew,  and  I  do  not  think  that 
I  ever  saw  him  in  those  early  days.  Yet  my  impression  of 
him  as  I  recall  those  times  is  very  vivid,  merely  because  I 
heard  him  talked  about  so  constantly.  He  was  one  of  the 
heroes  of  the  household  in  the  days  of  the  antislavery  strug- 
gle, and  my  father,  who  was  one  of  his  constituents,  had  a 
very  great  admiration  for  him,  not  only  on  account  of  his 
brilliancy  in  speech  and  debate,  but  for  his  fearlessness  and 
readiness  to  fight  if  need  be.  He  dwells  in  the  memory  of 
my  first  ten  years  as  one  of  the  champions  of  the  good  cause 
to  whom  we  all  owed  a  most  especial  allegiance. 

Of  Wendell  Phillips  I  saw  much  more,  as  it  happened, 
after  I  grew  up.  He  cannot  be  said  to  have  belonged  to  the 
group  of  human-rights  statesmen  who  took  possession  of  the 
stage  when  I  was  a  child,  and  held  it  for  many  years  after- 
wards, for  he  was  not  a  statesman  and  never  acted  long  in 
harmony  with  anybody.  Brought  up  in  a  free-soil  Repub- 
lican household,  I  had  imbibed  the  notion  that  Phillips  was 
an  agitator  who  injured  the  good  cause  by  his  extrava- 
gances. His  assaults  on  the  Union  of  States,  his  denuncia- 
tion of  the  Constitution,  and  his  attacks  upon  Lincoln  all 
combined  to  foster  this  idea.  Later,  as  I  began  to  think  for 
myself,  these  early  impressions  were  strengthened  by  Phil- 
lips's  support  of  Butler  and  Butler's  appointments  in  Massa- 
chusetts, by  his  zeal  for  the  negro  governments  of  the  South, 
by  his  praise  of  assassination  in  the  case  of  the  Czar  in  his 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  speech,  and  by  his  reckless  diatribes  against 
everybody  who  crossed  his  path.  He  was  in  truth  an  Ish- 
mael,  and  his  hand  was  against  every  man's.  When  Judge 
Hoar,  on  being  asked  if  he  was  going  to  Phillips' s  funeral, 
replied,  "  No,  I  cannot  go,  but  I  approve  of  the  proceedings 
entirely/'  he  expressed  by  his  jest  the  general  feeling  in 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  295 

Boston  about  Phillips.  Yet  when  I  came  to  know  him, 
although  I  did  not  alter  my  opinion  of  him  as  a  public 
man,  I  could  not  help  being  attracted  by  him  personally. 
He  was  tall,  singularly  high-bred,  and  distinguished-looking, 
handsome,  and  with  the  most  beautiful  voice  I  ever  heard. 
The  well-known  anecdote  of  Lord  Morpeth  and  Mr.  Ticknor 
gives  the  best  idea  of  the  way  Phillips  appeared  so  far  as 
mere  exterior  went.  Lord  Morpeth  was  in  this  country  in 
1842.  In  Boston  he  stayed  with  Mr.  Ticknor,  the  historian 
of  Spanish  literature,  who  had  travelled  much,  making  it 
his  business  to  see  every  one  of  note,  and  who  naturally 
took  charge  of  most  of  the  distinguished  foreigners  who 
visited  his  native  city.  Lord  Morpeth,  standing  one  day 
at  the  window  of  Mr.  Ticknor's  house  in  Park  Street,  said: 
"Who  are  those  two  men  walking  together?  They  are  the 
most  aristocratic,  the  most  distinguished-looking  men  I  have 
seen  in  America."  Mr.  Ticknor  looked  out  and  replied: 
"  Those  men  are  Edmund  Quincy  and  Wendell  Phillips, 
two  abolitionists  and  agitators,  violent,  dangerous  persons." 
Mr.  Ticknor  was  a  conservative,  a  friend  of  Webster,  a 
"cotton"  or  "Hunker"  Whig,  as  they  were  afterwards 
called,  and  Lord  Morpeth's  comment  on  Quincy  and  Phil- 
lips was  not  to  him  a  sympathetic  observation.  Yet  the 
two  agitators  were  entitled  to  their  looks  if  birth,  good 
family,  and  generations  of  education  and  refinement  meant 
anything.  By  Mr.  Ticknor  they  were  regarded  much  as  an 
anarchist  of  the  extreme  type  is  regarded  now,  and  he  could 
not  see  them  in  any  other  light.  I  was  too  young  to  have 
known  Mr.  Ticknor,  but  I  remember  as  a  boy  seeing  him 
constantly,  walking  slowly  in  the  sunshine  on  winter  days 
along  Beacon  Street,  where  we  then  lived,  not  far  from  his 
house.  He  was  short,  looked  like  the  typical  elderly  Eng- 
lishman of  the  Palmerstonian  period,  had  a  rather  stern 
expression,  and  an  air  of  conscious  importance.  He  was  a 


296  EARLY  MEMORIES 

man  of  learning  and  of  real  scholarship,  especially  in  his 
own  domain  of  Spanish  literature,  and  did  most  admirable 
work  in  that  field.  But  he  was,  I  imagine,  a  somewhat 
conceited  man,  and  these  qualities,  together  with  his  polit- 
ical attitude  in  the  years  of  the  war  and  those  preceding 
it,  had  made  him  unpopular. 

But  I  have  drifted  away  from  Phillips.  Through  our 
common  descent  from  John  Walley,  the  provincial  lieutenant- 
general  of  the  time  of  William  of  Orange,  my  father,  to 
whom  Phillips's  fearlessness  strongly  appealed,  had  always 
kept  up  relations  with  him.  My  mother  had,  of  course, 
known  him  from  her  girlhood,  and  despite  his  many  violences 
and  bitter  attacks  had,  I  think,  retained  not  only  a  lasting 
admiration  for  his  early  services  to  the  antislavery  cause 
in  the  dark  days  when  few  people  dared  to  say  a  word  on 
that  subject,  but  a  real  affection  for  the  man  himself.  In 
any  event,  he  used  to  dine  with  us  now  and  then,  especially 
when  Sumner  was  at  the  house,  and  it  is  on  those  occasions 
that  I  remember  him.  I  can  see  him  now  sitting  at  the 
dinner-table  with  his  attractive  smile  and  turning  down  all 
his  wine-glasses  to  show  his  support  of  total  abstinence  and 
State  prohibition  of  liquor-selling.  He  had  a  most  charm- 
ing manner  and  was  always  agreeable  and  interesting,  for 
he  was  a  man  of  wide  reading  and  talked  well  on  many 
subjects.  He  cared  nothing  for  accuracy — his  many  ene- 
mies said  he  cared  nothing  for  truth — but  this  failing  does 
not  make  conversation  less  amusing,  however  much  it  im- 
pairs its  moral  or  statistical  value.  He  would  also  say  bit- 
ter and  witty  things  about  people  whom  he  disliked,  and 
they  were  many,  but  all  in  his  quietest  manner  and  in  the 
most  silvery  tones  of  his  beautiful  voice.  I  remember  very 
well  how  interesting  he  was  once  in  discussing  public  speak- 
ing, of  which  it  is  needless  to  say  he  was  a  master,  and  of 
the  rules  to  be  observed  in  the  practice  of  that  difficult 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  297 

art.  "Use  the  conversational  tone  as  much  as  you  can," 
he  said;  "in  fact,  no  other  if  possible,  for  in  that  way  the 
inflections  are  preserved  which  are  all  lost  when  a  man  shouts. 
Moreover,  shouting  and  roaring  often  defeat  themselves  by 
mere  noise  and  monotony.  Making  an  audience  hear  de- 
pends on  the  pitch,  not  on  the  loudness  of  the  voice.  An- 
other great  point  overlooked  by  most  speakers  is  the  posi- 
tion of  the  head  and  the  direction  in  which  you  send  your 
voice.  Most  speakers  drop  the  head  a  little  and  talk  to 
the  people  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  on  the  floor- 
level.  Nobody  hears  them,  or  hears  only  very  imperfectly, 
back  of  the  middle  of  the  audience.  Always  talk  to  the 
most  remote  man  in  the  gallery.  If  you  can  make  him 
hear,  as  you  can  with  a  proper  pitch  and  clear  enunciation, 
everybody  between  you  and  him  will  hear  too."  I  had  no 
thought  at  that  time  that  I  should  ever  make  a  public 
speech,  but  what  Phillips  said  struck  me  very  much.  I 
always  remembered  the  simple  rules  he  laid  down,  and  they 
have  been  of  the  utmost  use  to  me  in  speaking  at  all  times, 
and  under  all  conditions. 

Another  of  the  leaders  of  the  Free-Soil  movement  whom 
I  came  to  know  in  those  years,  and  one  of  a  very  differ- 
ent type  from  the  men  I  have  already  mentioned,  was  Mr. 
Charles  Francis  Adams.  Through  my  intimacy  with  two 
of  his  sons,  Henry,  and  Brooks,  the  youngest  of  the  family 
who  had  been  in  college  with  me,  and  also  as  a  member  of 
the  Historical  Society  and  of  the  Wednesday  Evening  Club, 
I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him.  He  was  not  an  easy  man  to  know 
and  was  the  reverse  of  expansive,  but  I  watched  him  with 
interest  and  talked  with  him  whenever  I  had  a  chance. 
He  was  a  short,  strongly  built  man  with  a  very  marked  re- 
semblance to  his  father,  John  Quincy  Adams,  as  well  as  the 
characteristic  look  of  the  family.  His  forehead  was  broad 
with  abundant  room  behind  it.  His  features  were  sharply 


298  EARLY  MEMORIES 

cut,  the  eye  keen,  and  the  jaw — his  most  notable  feature — 
large,  square,  and  strong,  giving  an  impression  of  a  grip  like 
a  bulldog.  His  mouth  corresponded  to  the  jaw,  not  hand- 
some but  of  straight  clear  line,  and,  as  Carlyle  said  of  Web- 
ster's, "accurately  closed."  Altogether  his  head  and  face 
gave  an  unmistakable  expression  of  intellectual  power,  iron 
will,  and  calm  determination.  The  outward  appearance 
told  the  truth.  Mr.  Adams  had  all  these  qualities  in  a  high 
degree.  He  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  hard  and  cold- 
blooded, and  his  political  enemies  made  this  charge  in  season 
and  out  of  season.  Superficially  there  was  reason  for  the 
popular  idea,  but  I  am  certain  that  he  was  neither  cold- 
blooded nor  hard.  I  know  that  he  was  a  man  of  warm 
affections,  and  I  think  that  he  had  a  high  temper,  but  he 
concealed  the  one  and  controlled  the  other.  He  was  very 
reserved,  and  reserve  and  self-control,  as  is  so  often  the 
case,  were  mistaken  for  hardness  and  coldness  of  disposi- 
tion. I  met  him  abroad  when  he  was  in  Europe  on  the 
Geneva  Arbitration,  and  I  saw  him  often  in  Boston  after- 
wards. He  was,  as  a  rule,  very  taciturn,  and  joined  but 
little  in  general  conversation,  but  when  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  obtain  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  him  I  found 
him  always  as  kind  and  pleasant  as  possible.  He  never,  so 
far  as  I  could  see,  talked  about  himself  or  his  experiences 
or  what  he  had  done.  His  talk,  always  good,  marked  by 
entire  independence  of  opinion  and  great  lucidity  both  of 
thought  and  expression,  was  always  impersonal,  but  none 
the  less  interesting,  although  it  was  somewhat  remote  and 
detached.  I  recall  one  little  anecdote  which  he  told  me 
that  interested  me  very  much,  for  it  was  one  of  those  stories 
which  bring  men  of  the  past  close  and  make  them  live  again 
for  a  moment.  Stuart  painted  a  portrait  of  John  Adams  in 
extreme  old  age,  when  he  was  nearing  his  ninetieth  year. 
It  is  a  very  fine  portrait  of  the  old  man  seated  and  leaning 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  299 

on  his  cane.  Mr.  Adams,  a  boy  of  nineteen,  used  to  keep 
his  grandfather  company  during  the  sittings  and  watch  the 
painter  at  work.  He  said  that  Stuart,  who  was  old,  too,  and 
near  the  end  of  his  career,  was  physically  feeble.  Both  his 
hands  shook  violently.  From  a  quivering  palette  he  would 
take  his  color,  and  with  his  brush  shaking  and  trembling  he 
would  approach  the  picture.  Mr.  Adams  said  it  looked  as  if 
he  might  dash  the  paint  on  anywhere,  but  the  brush  always 
touched  the  portrait,  extraordinary  as  it  seemed,  in  exactly 
the  right  spot  and  in  precisely  the  right  way.  Despite  his 
shaking  hands  and  trembling  fingers,  the  old  artist  never 
made  a  mistake. 

Mr.  Adams  left  with  me  not  only  a  feeling  of  affection 
and  a  memory  of  kindness,  but  the  assurance  that  he  was 
a  very  strong,  very  able,  and  very  remarkable  man.  He 
was  stanch,  true,  entirely  fearless,  and  an  American  in  every 
fibre,  a  patriot  of  the  highest  type  of  patriotism.  He  was 
as  providential  in  his  place  as  minister  to  England  during 
our  Civil  War  as  Lincoln  was  in  the  White  House.  The 
heir  and  representative  of  a  line  of  statesmen,  thoroughly 
versed  in  history,  diplomacy,  and  politics  as  very  few  men 
ever  are,  he  met  the  public  men  of  England  on  something 
more  than  an  equality.  He  could  not  be  awed  or  overrid- 
den; he  was  as  highly  trained  as  the  best  of  them,  and  much 
better  informed.  He  was  calm  and  quite  incapable  of  blus- 
ter or  violence,  but  when  the  right  moment  came  he  could 
strike  harder  than  any  one  else  and  with  all  the  pent-up 
force  of  the  strong  man  who  knows  how  to  wait.  I  have 
always  thought  that  he  went  through  those  four  terrible 
years  of  unparalleled  difficulty,  trial,  and  danger  without 
making  a  single  mistake,  and  with  the  utmost  degree  of 
effectiveness.  There  could  be  no  higher  praise. 

I  will  venture  to  give  two  of  his  letters  to  me,  because 
they  not  only  are  evidence  of  his  kind-hearted  readiness  to 


300  EARLY  MEMORIES 

encourage  a  very  young  man,  but  they  are  also  characteristic 
and  show  some  of  the  qualities  I  have  tried  to  describe. 
The  first  relates  to  an  article  upon  Alexander  Hamilton, 
the  second  to  my  memoir  of  my  great-grandfather,  George 
Cabot. 

QUINCY  25  July  1876 

DEAR  MR.   LODGE. 

In  looking  over  the  July  number  of  the  North  American  Re- 
view, I  was  very  naturally  attracted  to  your  article  as  one  in  which 
I  might  take  an  interest;  and  on  reading  it  I  was  not  disappointed. 

You  have  taken  up  a  difficult  subject  and  have  managed  it 
with  skill  and  good  temper.  You  have  also  labored  to  be  impartial 
in  questions  where  your  very  natural  bias  might  most  reasonably 
lead  you  to  take  a  side.  In  my  opinion  you  have  acquitted  your- 
self with  great  credit.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  the  Review  often  sup- 
plying equally  instructive  matter,  in  an  equally  dignified  way. 

You  will  not  understand  by  this  that  I  always  agree  with  you 
in  your  judgments.  On  the  contrary,  I  should  perhaps  differ  in 
your  analysis  of  all  three  of  the  great  men  of  whom  you  treat,  but 
that  would  not  in  the  least  impair  my  appreciation  of  the  value 
of  your  work.  I  am  very  glad  to  find  the  young  men  endeavoring 
to  understand  them  historically  and  not  in  the  spirit  of  old  preju- 
dices handed  down  from  generation  to  generation.  In  my  youth- 
ful days  the  fashion  was  intense  panegyric  or  else  ferocious  malev- 
olence. I  think  we  have  improved  on  them  in  this  respect  if  not 
in  many  others.  I  trust  the  Review  may  continue  to  be  favored 
,as  well  as  to  be  benefitted  by  such  contributors. 

Very  truly  yours 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS 

QUINCY  4  July,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  SIR 

Engrossed  as  I  have  been  for  some  time  in  the  final  corrections 
of  the  press  of  my  own  work,  I  have  not  yet  had  the  leisure  neces- 
sary to  peruse  your's  which  you  have  been  so  kind  as  to  send  me. 
I  thank  you  for  remembering  me,  and  I  shall  read  it  with  the  at- 
tention which  I  see  it  deserves.  If  not  convinced  by  the  argu- 
ment, or  the  conclusions,  it  is  at  any  rate  a  consoling  reflection 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  301 

that  all  the  acerbity  that  infected  the  subject  has  passed  away,  and 
we  may  commit  it  to  the  same  umpire  which  has  passed  upon 
human  action  from  the  days  of  Romulus  and  Pericles  and  Moses 
down  to  the  last  Napoleon  and  Sir  Robert  Peel.  When  I  was 
entering  into  life  I  was  disposed  to  mount  a  high  horse  and  chal- 
lenge the  world  to  disputation  for  prizes  which  now  I  would  not 
cross  this  room  to  secure. 

Such  are  my  reflections  whilst  listening  to  the  cannon  in  Boston 
which  remind  me  that  we  have  a  country  about  which  with  all 
it's  short  comings  we  can  all  agree  still  to  esteem  quite  as  well 
worth  living  in  as  in  any  other  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 

Very  truly 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS. 

Another  man,  distinguished  in  public  life  during  the 
trying  years  which  preceded  the  Civil  War,  whom  I  came  to 
know  well  at  the  time  was  Robert  C.  Winthrop.  In  politics 
he  was  the  antipodes  of  the  men  I  have  thus  far  mentioned, 
and  in  the  atmosphere  of  Free  Soil  and  Republicanism 
which  I  had  breathed  I  had  gathered  the  vague  idea  that 
he  was  little  better  than  a  pro-slavery  Democrat;  that,  like 
Webster,  he  had  made  the  great  refusal  and  had  abandoned 
the  cause  of  freedom  and  of  the  country.  When  I  came  to 
know  him  I  changed  my  conception  of  him  very  materially, 
although  I  never  thought  he  was  right  in  the  political  course 
which  he  adopted.  He  was  president  of  the  Historical 
Society  when  I  became  a  member,  and  I  think  that  my  elec- 
tion was  largely  due  to  him.  He  was  nearly  seventy  when  I 
first  knew  him,  and  seemed  to  me  much  older,  for  he  ap- 
peared to  cultivate  an  appearance  of  age,  although  he  was 
really  strong  and  active  and  lived  to  be  over  eighty.  To  me 
he  was  very  kind  in  the  way  which  is  never  forgotten.  His 
first  wife,  the  mother  of  his  children,  was  a  cousin  of  my 
grandfather,  and  he  took  a  genuine  interest  in  the  work  I 
was  doing  in  collecting  my  great-grandfather's  letters  and 
preparing  a  memoir  of  him.  To  me  he  was  sympathetic  and 


302  EARLY  MEMORIES 

gentle  always,  and  I  became  very  fond  of  him.  A  descend- 
ant of  John  Winthrop,  the  founder  of  Massachusetts,  he 
was  a  gentleman  in  every  sense,  and  in  the  best  sense.  His 
manner  was  formal  and  very  courteous,  with  the  savor  of  an 
elder  day.  He  was  an  accomplished  man,  a  scholar  in  the 
old  and  generous  acceptation  of  the  word,  widely  read, 
widely  travelled,  and  a  most  delightful  companion.  Early 
in  life  he  had  entered  politics  and  had  been  highly  successful. 
From  the  Legislature  he  had  gone  to  Congress  and  had  been 
elected  Speaker  when  the  Whigs  secured  control.  He  was 
a  Whig  candidate  for  the  Senate  and  had  filled  an  unfinished 
term,  but  had  lost  his  election  owing  to  the  rising  anti- 
slavery  tide  and  the  coalition  between  the  Democrats  and 
Free-Soilers  which  swept  Massachusetts  from  her  Whig 
moorings.  This  was  the  end  of  his  political  career.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  accept  the  Republican  party; 
he  fell  out  of  the  race,  and  ended  by  voting  the  Democratic 
ticket  and  losing  all  hold  upon  the  people  of  Massachusetts. 
Although  embittered  by  his  experience,  he  did  not  com- 
plain, but  behaved  always  with  dignity  and  turned  to  histor- 
ical studies  for  occupation.  Only  once  in  all  my  talks  with 
him  did  the  old  feeling  flash  up.  One  day  we  were  discussing 
Webster,  with  whom  I  had  unquestioningly  placed  him  as 
an  ally  and  follower,  when  to  my  great  surprise  he  spoke  of 
Webster  with  an  acerbity  and  energy  which  revealed  to  me 
a  vigor  and  intensity  of  feeling  of  which  I  had  not  thought 
him  capable.  I  do  not  remember  what  the  precise  grievance 
was,  but  he  felt  that  Webster  had  betrayed  him  and  he 
had  not  forgiven  him.  The  real  man  came  to  the  surface 
through  the  gracious,  formal  manner,  and  I  was  interested 
to  see  what  very  strong,  human  feelings  the  real  man  pos- 
sessed. Mr.  Winthrop  was  an  orator  of  much  power  and 
grace.  His  style  was  of  his  day,  stately,  careful,  dignified, 
and  his  addresses  and  orations  on  many  occasions  gave  him  a 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  303 

large  reputation  throughout  the  country.  But  what  I  think 
of  chiefly,  as  I  recall  him,  is  the  kindly,  high-bred  gentle- 
man, thoughtful  and  well-mannered,  who  was  always  so 
helpful  and  encouraging  to  a  young  man  who  had  no  claim 
upon  him  except  that  we  both  loved  books  and  history. 

Let  me  turn  now  from  the  men  of  public  affairs  to  the 
men  of  letters  whom  I  remember  in  my  boyhood,  and  whom 
I  knew -or  came  to  know  in  the  years  which  followed  my  re- 
turn from  Europe.  I  was  born  just  at  the  time  when  the 
remarkable  group  of  writers  who  made  New  England  and 
Massachusetts  famous  were  at  their  zenith,  or  rising  to 
their  highest  achievement.  In  the  fifties  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  was  started,  and  the  essays  of  the  "Autocrat" 
begun.  The  first  series  of  the  "Biglow  Papers"  had  been 
written,  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  and  Longfellow  had  already 
won  their  fame,  and  Prescott,  Motley,  and  Bancroft  had 
established  their  reputations  as  historians.  Hawthorne  I 
never  saw,  a  misfortune  I  deeply  regret,  for  I  should  have 
liked  to  cherish  at  least  a  memory  of  his  looks.  All  the 
others  I  not  only  saw,  but,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Pres- 
cott, met  frequently,  and  in  the  process  of  the  years  came  to 
know  them  personally  and  well.  Let  me  begin,  then,  with 
the  one  whom  I  knew  first,  and  who  is  associated  with  my 
very  earliest  memories,  John  Lothrop  Motley.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Motley,  although  much  younger,  were,  I  may  repeat, 
intimate  friends  of  my  grandfather  and  grandmother  Cabot, 
and  this  friendship  was  extended  to  my  father  and  mother. 
Lady  Harcourt,  Mr.  Motley's  oldest  daughter,  was  named 
Elizabeth  Cabot  for  my  aunt,  a  very  beautiful  girl  who  died 
when  she  was  only  nineteen  years  old.  Whenever  the 
Motleys  were  in  the  country  they  stayed  with  us  at  Nahant, 
I  was  taught  to  call  them  uncle  and  aunt,  and  the  friendship 
thus  begun  with  their  three  daughters  has  lasted  through 
life,  undiminished  and  unchanged  either  by  time  or  separa- 


304  EARLY  MEMORIES 

tion.  Mrs.  Motley,  whom  I  loved  much  better  than  most 
of  my  blood  relations,  was,  as  I  have  said  in  an  earlier 
chapter,  and  like  to  say  again,  a  very  handsome  woman  of 
unusual  charm  and  warm  affections,  coupled  with  a  warmth 
of  feeling  and  an  energy  of  opinion  when  she  was  moved 
which  made  her  only  the  more  attractive. 

It  is  not  easy  to  me  to  describe  Mr.  Motley,  because  he 
was  so  entirely  a  part  of  my  childish  world  that  I  accepted 
him  as  a  matter  of  course,  just  as  I  did  my  father  and 
mother,  and  never  thought  of  looking  at  him  from  the  out- 
side point  of  view.  He  was  a  remarkably  handsome  man. 
That  fact  impressed  me  at  a  very  early  day.  He  had,  as  I 
realized  later,  a  singularly  high-spirited  look — eager,  sen- 
sitive, proud;  he  always  made  me  think  of  a  thoroughbred 
horse  with  its  brilliant  eyes  just  touched  with  wildness,  its 
quick  response  to  every  movement,  and  the  undaunted  cour- 
age which  holds  until  nature  gives  way  and  then  drops  never 
to  rise  again.  Mr.  Motley's  nature  corresponded  to  his 
looks.  He  had  the  keenest  intensity  of  feeling,  together 
with  an  unusual  power  of  expressing  it.  His  opinions  were 
strong,  and  a  calculating  discretion  never  caused  their  con- 
cealment. As  is  common  in  such  sensitive  and  emotional 
natures,  he  was  full  of  fun  and  humor,  which  are  apt  to 
lie  near  the  sources  of  anger  or  of  tears.  He  was  deeply 
loyal  to  his  friends  and  very  bitter  toward  his  enemies.  He 
acutely  felt  and  fiercely  resented  wrong,  whether  to  him- 
self, to  his  friends,  or  to  the  weak  and  oppressed;  above  all 
he  resented  any  wrong  to  his  country,  for  despite  his  living 
so  much  in  Europe  he  was  an  ardent  American,  intense  in  his 
patriotism  as  in  all  else.  The  romantic  movement  in  liter- 
ature and  art  was  in  full  strength  as  Mr.  Motley  came  to 
manhood,  and,  like  other  men  of  imagination,  he  was  in 
entire  sympathy  with  it  and  a  part  of  it.  He  began  his  lit- 
erary life  with  two  novels,  "  Merry-Mount "  and  "Mor- 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  305 

ton's  Hope."  The  stories  dealt  with  one  of  the  episodes  of 
the  early  settlement  of  New  England  which  was  enveloped 
in  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  romance  not  too  common 
in  the  history  of  the  grim  struggle  to  found  a  state  on  that 
bleak  and  rugged  coast.  These  novels  were  by  no  means 
devoid  of  merit,  but  they  had  no  great  success,  and  were 
overshadowed  by  the  genius  which,  going  to  the  same  field, 
produced  "The  Scarlet  Letter,"  the  "Twice-told  Tales," 
and  "The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables."  Mr.  Motley  was 
dissatisfied  with  them  and  never  alluded  to  them.  They 
were  not  republished  and,  having  been  long  out  of  print, 
are  now  a  prize  for  the  collector  of  first  editions.  Leav- 
ing fiction  to  others,  Mr.  Motley  turned  to  history  and 
selected  as  his  subject  the  struggle  of  the  Dutch  for  lib- 
erty and  independence.  No  part  of  modern  history  could 
have  been  better  adapted  to  his  talents  and  his  tempera- 
ment. His  love  of  liberty,  his  gallant  spirit,  his  hatred 
of  oppression,  all  were  appealed  to  by  the  heroic  battle  of 
the  Dutch  against  the  power  of  Spain,  and  the  romantic 
episodes  of  that  long  fight  against  overwhelming  odds 
touched  the  chords  which  vibrated  so  readily  in  those  days 
of  successful  revolt  against  the  dry,  cold  conventions  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  With  a  care  and  industry  remark- 
able in  one  of  his  quick  mind  and  impatient  temper,  he 
explored  the  archives  and  toiled  through  untouched  and 
original  authorities  like  the  veriest  antiquary.  The  re- 
sult was  "The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,"  which  had  an 
immediate  and  brilliant  success,  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
and  which  made  his  fame  secure.  He  carried  into  his  books 
the  same  energy  and  enthusiasm  which  made  him  so  inspir- 
ing and  so  fascinating  in  private  life.  Long  before  I  had 
read  his  history  or  knew  anything  of  the  period  I  had  be- 
come deeply  interested  in  all  his  heroes,  especially  in  William 
the  Silent,  merely  from  hearing  him  talk  about  them.  He 


306  EARLY  MEMORIES 

made  me  feel  as  if  they  were  all  alive  and  fighting  their  great 
fight  at  that  moment,  and,  boy-like,  I  longed  to  be  a  "Beg- 
gar of  the  Sea,"  and  hated  Philip  II  with  a  vigor  which, 
I  confess,  a  larger  knowledge  has  not  materially  dimin- 
ished. Mr.  Motley  comes  back  to  me  now  as  I  recall  those 
early  days  with  his  flashing  eyes,  his  high-spirited  looks,  his 
head  flung  back,  talking  with  eager  eloquence  about  Egmont 
and  Horn  and  William  of  Orange,  or  about  American  slavery 
and  North  and  South,  always  with  the  same  intensity  when 
he  was  moved,  and  with  the  same  hatred  of  wrong  and  op- 
pression, whether  among  the  dikes  of  Holland  or  on  the 
plantations  of  the  South.  I  wish  that  I  could  manage  to 
give  in  words  some  idea  of  the  effect  of  his  presence  and 
manner,  which  in  many  ways  were  the  most  striking  I  have 
ever  seen  in  any  man.  But  my  attempt  at  description 
seems  to  me  painfully  inadequate.  He  had  something  in 
his  look,  something  in  his  manner,  which  arrested  attention 
as  soon  as  he  entered  a  room,  and  was  in  some  indefinable 
way  at  once  exciting  and  inspiring.  In  reading  the  attract- 
ive reminiscences  of  Lady  Saint  Helier,  I  was  much  pleased 
to  notice  that  Mr.  Motley,  in  her  opinion,  produced  the  very 
effect  which  I  have  tried  to  describe.  She  says:  " There 
are  some  figures  and  faces  one  can  never  forget,  and  Mr. 
Motley  was  one  of  the  most  striking  people  I  have  ever 
seen.  At  this  moment  the  impression  he  made  upon  me  is 
as  vivid  as  on  that  evening  when  I  first  looked  upon  the 
author  of  one  of  the  most  entertaining  books  of  history  that 
it  is  possible  to  read."  When  I  read  this  testimony  of  a 
disinterested  and  keen  observer,  I  felt  that  my  own  impres- 
sions of  Mr.  Motley's  striking  look  and  inspiriting  manner 
were  not  led  astray  by  propinquity  and  affection.  He  was, 
as  Lady  Saint  Helier  says,  one  of  the  rare  people  who  are  not 
only  vivid,  but  can  never  fall  a  prey  to  f orgetfulness  among 
those  who  have  seen  and  known  them.  He  had,  and  I  am 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  307 

inclined  to  think  that  his  historical  work  had,  something 
of  that  "wrath  and  partiality"  which  Byron  admired  in  a 
historian.  But  these  qualities  make  his  books  more  and 
not  less  attractive,  especially  in  these  days  of  "scientific 
history,"  when  it  is  the  fashion  of  a  certain  school  to  hold 
that  history  is  not  literature,  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  it 
is  only  the  history  which  is  also  literature  which  survives  and 
is  read,  and  so  serves  to  enlighten  and  convince  the  world. 

The  success  of  the  Republican  party  found  Mr.  Motley 
in  Europe,  where  he  plunged  into  the  fray  in  defence  of  the 
Union  cause,  outraged  by  the  attitude  of  England  and  Eng- 
lish opinion.  He  was  soon  appointed  minister  to  Vienna, 
and  there  we  found  him,  late  in  the  winter  of  1867,  and  re- 
newed the  old  friendship  and  intimacy.  When  he  returned 
to  the  United  States  after  Grant's  election,  he  was  constantly 
at  our  house  in  Boston.  That  was,  I  think,  the  happiest 
time  of  his  life.  His  place  as  a  historian  had  been  won,  the 
Union  cause  in  which  his  heart  was  bound  up  had  triumphed, 
his  party  was  successful,  and  he  was  on  the  eve  of  the  recog- 
nition to  which  both  his  success  in  literature  and  his  public 
services  entitled  him.  I  wish  that  I  had  known  enough  to 
make  notes  of  his  talks  in  those  days,  as  they  ranged  from 
affairs  at  home,  over  European  politics,  to  the  history  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  I  can  only  recall  his  description  of 
Bismarck,  then  just  assuming  his  commanding  place  in 
Europe,  and  with  whom  Motley  had  been  intimate  as  a 
fellow  student  at  Gottingen.  Bismarck's  greatest  achieve- 
ments were  still  in  the  future,  but  Mr.  Motley  had  the  ut- 
most confidence  in  his  powers,  and  told  us  much  of  those 
qualities  of  force  and  intellect  about  which  the  world  was 
then  wondering  and  speculating. 

Mr.  Motley  was  appointed  minister  to  England,  and  his 
ambition  was  gratified.  Into  the  unhappy  incidents  which 
led  to  his  quarrel  with  the  administration  and  his  removal 


308  EARLY  MEMORIES 

from  office  this  is  not.  the  place  to  enter.  The  blow  was  a 
cruel  one.  To  a  man  of  his  sensitive  nature  and  quick  feel- 
ings it  was  wounding  to  the  last  degree.  When  we  were 
abroad  in  1871-2  we  went  to  The  Hague,  whither  he  had 
gone  to  complete  his  life  of  John  of  Barneveldt,  and  there  we 
saw  him  and  all  the  family,  as  full  of  kindness  and  affection 
for  us  as  ever.  A  proud  man,  Mr.  Motley  kept  a  brave 
face  to  the  world,  but  in  his  own  house  he  could  not  and  did 
not  conceal  his  bitter  resentment  at  the  treatment  which  he 
had  received.  I  could  see  how  much  he  had  changed  under 
the  wrongs  which  he  felt  had  been  inflicted  upon  him.  The 
old  enmities  and  the  old  friendships,  the  intense  feeling,  the 
deep  interest  in  past  and  present,  were  unaltered;  but  the 
high  spirits,  the  fun  and  the  laughter,  always  so  engaging, 
were  largely  gone,  and  his  talk  was  tinged  with  bitterness, 
while  there  was  an  air  of  depression  about  him  when  he  was 
silent  which  had  never  been  there  before,  and  which  it  was 
sad  to  see. 

When  I  saw  him  next,  three  years  later,  it  was  still 
sadder.  Mrs.  Motley  had  died,  and  the  light  of  his  life 
had  gone  out.  He  had  been  crushed  under  the  blow,  and 
had  suffered  a  touch  of  paralysis,  from  which  he  was  rallying, 
but  which  affected  his  walk,  although  not  seriously. '  He 
came  home  in  1875,  and  passed  the  summer  with  my  mother 
at  her  house  in  Nahant,  two  of  his  daughters,  the  eldest,  now 
Lady  Harcourt,  and  the  youngest,  now  Mrs.  Mildmay, 
being  with  him.  I  saw  him  constantly  during  all  that 
summer,  was  with  him  almost  every  day,  and  I  think  that 
I  was  of  some  comfort  to  him.  His  mind  was  as  keen,  as 
brilliant,  as  ever;  and  although  he  was  broken  in  spirit,  he 
liked  to  talk  of  history,  of  the  events  of  the  world  past  and 
present,  and  of  the  men  he  had  known.  He  also  took  the 
most  affectionate  interest  in  all  that  I  was  doing,  in  my 
hopes  and  ambitions,  in  my  speculations  about  life  and  its 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  309 

meaning.  How  much  I  wish  now  that  I  had  made  some 
note  or  record  of  those  long  talks,  but  I  enjoyed  them  and  let 
them  pass,  as  is  the  fashion  of  youth.  Now  I  have  only 
memory  to  turn  to  as  I  recall  those  summer  days.  I  remem- 
ber one  occasion,  when  we  happened  to  be  speaking  of  style 
in  prose  and  verse,  his  calling  my  attention  to  the  beautiful 
effects  which  Shakespeare  produced  by  his  arrangement  of 
words  of  Saxon  origin  in  contrast  to,  and  in  juxtaposition 
with,  those  of  Latin  derivation.  He  quoted,  as  perhaps  the 
best  example,  the  lines  from  " Macbeth": 

"No,  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine; 
Making  the  green  one  red." 

As  soon  as  he  repeated  the  familiar  lines  I  saw  at  once  that 
the  effect  which  they  make,  and  which  at  once  arrests  the 
attention  and  delights  the  ear,  arose  from  the  long,  rich,  full- 
sounding  Latin  words  being  sharply  followed  by  the  short 
Saxon  words  coming  like  the  sharp  beats  of  a  drum  after  the 
organ  notes  of  the  preceding  line.  I  never  forgot  either  the 
lines  or  what  Mr.  Motley  said,  and  it  helped  me  to  appreciate 
beauties  in  verse  and  high  artistic  skill  in  placing  words  when 
I  had  felt,  but  had  never  understood  before,  the  reason  for 
either. 

Apart  from  this  I  can  only  recall  one  other  little  remark; 
and  why  that  should  have  struck  me  and  remained  in  my 
memory  I  cannot  tell,  except  that  it  seemed  to  body  forth 
the  sensitiveness  of  Mr.  Motley 's  nature  and  the  sadness 
which  then  pervaded  him.  We  were  on  the  Point  one  eve- 
ning toward  autumn  and  watched  the  moon  rise  out  of  the 
sea  and  slowly  climb  upward  from  the  horizon.  It  was  a  fine, 
cool  night,  and  the  moonlight  was  very  clear  and  brilliant. 
He  remarked  upon  it,  and  I  said:  "Nothing  could  be  more 
brilliant  except  our  moonlight  in  winter  glittering  on  the 


310  EARLY  MEMORIES 

snow."  He  turned  on  me  almost  fiercely  and  said:  "I  can- 
not bear  moonlight  on  the  snow.  I  hate  it.  It  is  so  cold, 
so  cruel,  so  unfeeling."  He  had  suffered  so  much  in  his 
pride  and  his  affections  that  he  quivered  under  the  slightest 
touch,  and  even  the  thought  of  the  cold  radiance  of  a  moon- 
lit winter  night  pained  him. 

He  returned  to  England  that  autumn.  He  wrote  to  me 
occasionally,  delightful  and  affectionate  letters,  and  I  shall 
yield  to  the  temptation  of  giving  one  or  two  of  them  here, 
for  he  died  two  years  later,  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

5  SEAMORE  PLACE, 

MAYFAIR 

LONDON,  11  March,  '76. 

MY  DEAR  CABOT: 

I  ought  to  have  sooner  acknowledged  and  thanked  you  for 
your  kind  and  interesting  letter  of  25  Jan.,  together  with  the  excel- 
lent centennial  number  of  the  N.  A.  R. 

Unluckily  writing  is  more  difficult  to  me  than  ever  as  in  addi- 
tion to  unsteadiness  of  right  hand  has  come  dimness  of  right  eye 
— so  that  I  am  inclined  to  howl  "solve  senescentem"  to  all  to 
whom  I  owe  letters.  At  the  same  time  with  national  recklessness 
I  am  all  for  contracting  fresh  obligations  while  in  a  state  of  no- 
torious bankruptcy. 

So  I  beg  you  to  write  to  me  frequently,  constantly,  unremit- 
tedly.  I  should  so  much  like  to  hear  from  you  as  often  as  you  can 
find  a  spare  quarter  of  an  hour  to  enlighten  me  a  little  as  to  our 
political  conditions. 

You  say  in  your  letter  "  in  politics,  as  you  have  probably  seen, 
there  is  the  most  absolute  calm.  But  it  is  only  the  treacherous 
stillness  which  precedes  the  storm." 

Truly  you  are  a  prophet  and  the  grandson  of  a  prophet — for 
is  not  the  gale  blowing  freshly  enough  now? 

I  only  hope  it  may  blow  away  some  of  the  vile  effluvia  by  which 
the  political  atmosphere  has  become  almost  too  poisonous  for 
human  existence. 

Certainly  the  daily  telegrams  from  Washington  to  the  London 
press  make  every  patriotic  and  honest  American  hang  his  head. 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  311 

But  I  believe  in  the  American  people  nevertheless  as  I  always 
have  done  and  I  trust  that  this  very  putrid  administration  will 
soon  be  buried  out  of  sight  with  all  its  belongings. 

I  have  had  read  to  me  two  of  the  articles  in  the  N.  A.  R.  and 
shall  have  the  others  read  also.  I  liked  those  on  politics  and  on 
economic  science  very  much. 

Is  your  thesis  on  Anglo  Saxon  Law  printed?  If  so  would  you 
send  me  a  copy? 

I  should  like  to  have  the  N.  A.  R.  regularly  sent  to  the  above 
address.  I  hope  future  numbers  will  have  many  articles  from 
your  (and  my)  favorite  author. 

Give  all  our  love  to  your  wife  and  mother  and  believe  me 
always 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  L.  MOTLEY. 

P.  S. — When  you  see  Professor  Peirce  I  wish  you  would  give 
my  love  to  him  and  tell  him  how  much  I  wish  to  thank  him  for  his 
most  kind  and  genial  reference  to  myself  at  the  Harvard  Club 
dinner.  It  gratified  and  touched  me  very  deeply.  I  need  not  say 
how  interesting  the  whole  speech  was. 

KINGSTON-RUSSELL  HOUSE, 
DORCHESTER, 

DORSET,  2  June,  76. 
MY  DEAR  CABOT: 

I  received  the  letter  you  were  kind  enough  just  two  months 
ago  to  write  to  me  and  had  very  great  pleasure  and  I  may  add 
instruction  in  reading  it — which  I  did  several  times — besides  show- 
ing it  to  one  or  two  persons  able  to  comprehend  and  kindly  enough 
to  sympathize  with  the  mental  condition  of  honest  men  in  the 
present  shameful  condition  of  our  politics. 

As  I  never  despaired  for  one  moment  throughout  our  war  with 
slavery  from  the  beginning  of  it  to  the  end,  so  I  am  able  to  hope 
now.  I  believe  that  the  American  people  have  not  yet  sold  them- 
selves to  the  devil.  It  looks  very  like  it  just  now.  It  looked  very 
like  it  during  the  long  period  of  compromise  and  prevarication 
which  preceded  the  war.  But  the  people  are  better  and  braver 
than  the  politicians.  They  found  out  the  issue  then.  I  hope 
they  will  again.  I  trust  they  will  smash  paper  money  as  they 
smashed  slavery  and  at  much  less  expense.  I  even  hope  to  live 


312  EARLY  MEMORIES 

long  enough  to  see  a  beginning  of  purification  in  the  Civil  Service. 
As  soon  as  the  vile  phrases  "to  the  victors  the  spoils"  and  "rota- 
tion in  office"  can  be  expunged  from  the  politicians'  creed  there 
may  be  a  chance  for  decent  government.  Not  till  then. 

I  also  received  the  invitation  1  which  you  sent  to  me  thinking 
I  might  like  to  see  it.  Of  course  I  understood  that  it  was  not  ad- 
dressed to  me  personally  and  so  did  not  answer  it.  I  trust  it  is 
hardly  necessary  for  me  to  say  how  fully  I  am  in  sympathy  with 
the  object  and  the  men.  Only  in  this  way  can  that  most  vulgar 
and  dangerous  tyrant  King  Caucus  and  his  elaborate  and  skillful 
system  be  deposed  and  destroyed.  Since  your  letter  came  I  see  by 
the  papers  that  the  movement  in  which  you  did  such  good  serv- 
ice has  proved  a  success  even  if  you  don't  force  either  Bristow 
or  Tilden  this  time.  But  I  think  you  will.  Probably  the  latter. 

I  hope  you  may  find  time  to  write  me  again.  The  sooner  the 
better.  I  take  great  interest  in  you  and  I  am  likewise  much  in- 
terested in  what  you  write.  I  wish  I  could  send  you  something 
in  return.  But  I  am  in  the  deepest  retirement  and  I  am  also 
rather  shaky,  so  that  writing  is  a  great  effort.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, could  be  more  insipid  than  English  politics  or  more  intensely 
respectable. 

I  shall  look  for  your  impending  publication  with  greatest 
interest.  Meantime  with  much  love  to  your  Mother  and  your 
Wife  I  am 

Always  Affectionately  yours, 

J.  L.  MOTLEY. 

As  I  have  begun  my  recollections  of  the  literary  men 
whom  I  came  to  know  during  the  years  which  intervened 
between  my  return  from  Europe  and  my  entrance  into  public 
life  with  a  historian,  I  will  go  on  to  other  historians  whose 
friendship  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  possess.  Although,  as 
I  have  said,  Mr.  Prescott  was  not  only  a  friend  of  my  grand- 
father, one  whom  he  saw  much  and  to  whom  he  was  much 
attached,  but  also  of  my  mother,  I  have  no  personal  remem- 
brance of  him,  as  he  died  in  1859  while  I  was  still  a  boy.  I 
must  have  seen  him  many  times,  yet  nothing  remains  in  my 
1  This  refers  to  the  gathering  known  as  "  The  Fifth  Avenue  Conference." 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  313 

memory  except  the  impressions  given  me  by  my  mother  of  his 
charm  and  gentleness,  his  refinement  and  knowledge,  and 
of  the  distinction  which  any  one  can  see  in  the  calm,  high- 
bred face  that  looks  out  upon  us  from  his  portrait.  One  little 
story  which  my  mother  told  me  I  still  recall.  She  said  that 
several  times  when  she  was  a  young  girl  Mr.  Prescott  would 
take  her  aside  when  they  met  and  say:  "Come,  let  us  talk 
about  our  friend  George  Bancroft.  We  care  nothing  about 
his  politics,  but  we  love  the  historian."  This  was  at  the 
period  when  Mr.  Bancroft's  Democratic  politics  had  made 
him  extremely  unpopular  in  Boston  and  Massachusetts, 
which  were  Whig  strongholds,  and  when  "Society"  in  the 
fashionable  sense  was  almost  universally  Whig  and  bitterly 
hostile  to  President  Jackson.  The  remark  was  very  char- 
acteristic of  Mr.  Prescott,  and  my  mother  always  spoke  most 
affectionately  of  his  kindness  to  her.  One  little  note,  which 
in  some  way  has  escaped  the  destruction  wrought  by  time, 
I  will  also  print,  recalling  as  it  does  a  trifling  incident  of  the 
days  that  are  gone.  It  is  addressed  to  my  grandmother, 
and  what  the  gift  referred  to  as  a  "Prince  Albert"  may  have 
been  I  cannot  conjecture. 


DEAR  MRS.  CABOT — 

I  think  I  know  the  "friend  and  admirer" — at  least  I  have  no 
doubt  as  to  the  kind  friend,  who  sent  me  the  "Prince  Albert " 
this  morning.  I  am  more  likely  indeed  to  fight  my  battles  with 
the  pen  than  the  sword — and  though  a  sword  is  rather  an  odd 
gage  d'amitie,  I  most  gladly  receive  it  as  such,  and  assure  you  I 
shall  always  wear  it  next  my  heart— tho'  you  will  hardly  expect  it 
shall  ever  be  at  your  service. 

With  the  best  wishes  for  a  happy  New  Year,  and  many  a  happy 
New  Year,  I  am,  my  dear  Mrs.  Cabot, 

Most  truly  your  obliged  friend 

WM.  H.  PRESCOTT. 
BEDFORD  ST. 
— 1—1841. 


314  EARLY  MEMORIES 

The  little  story  brings  me  to  another  historian,  Mr. 
Bancroft,  whom  I  knew  very  well  indeed,  although  he  was 
fifty  years  old  when  I  was  born.  But  he  lived  until  I  was 
myself  more  than  forty,  and  I  corresponded  with  him  for 
years,  met  him  at  Newport,  and  after  I  came  to  Congress  I 
saw  him  constantly  in  Washington.  He  was  an  old  friend 
of  our  family,  connected  with  us  by  marriage,  as  his  sister 
married  my  mother's  uncle,  Mr.  John  Blake.  He  was  an  es- 
pecial friend  of  my  grandmother  and  my  mother,  and  among 
the  latter's  papers  I  found  not  only  many  notes  from  him, 
but  copies  of  verses,  for  he  had  a  turn  for  writing  verse  in 
his  younger  days  and  indeed  published  a  small  volume  of 
poems  which  he  afterwards  made  every  effort  to  buy  up 
and  destroy,  so  that  the  book  is  now  rare,  and  has  become 
a  rarity  prized  by  the  collector. 

Mr.  Bancroft  was  a  man  of  great  vigor  and  activity,  both 
of  body  and  mind.  A  graduate  of  Harvard  and  then  of 
Gottingen,  he  in  this  way  received  an  education  to  which 
very  few  Americans  in  those  days  attained.  He  was  ambi- 
tious both  in  politics  and  in  literature  and  in  both  he  suc- 
ceeded. To  both  he  brought  great  energy,  unwearied  in- 
dustry, a  keen,  penetrating,  and  relentless  mind,  and  he 
drove  forward  to  his  object  with  ceaseless  effort.  He  began 
by  teaching  school.  It  was  a  famous  school  in  its  day  at 
Round  Hill  in  Northampton,  and  excellent  in  its  instruction, 
but  the  highly  efficient  head  master  was  neither  loved  nor 
popular.  Then  he  went  into  politics,  an  aggressive  Demo- 
crat in  a  wilderness  of  Whigs  with  a  strong  Federalist  tra- 
dition. He  was  appointed  by  Van  Buren  collector  of  the 
port  of  Boston,  for  the  administration  was  only  too  delighted 
to  find  in  New  England  a  man  of  Mr.  Bancroft's  position  and 
antecedents  on  the  Democratic  side.  Already  regarded  with 
disfavor  by  the  Whig  community  in  which  he  lived,  his  suc- 
cess increased  his  unpopularity,  for  success  is  the  most  unf or- 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  315 

givable  of  sins  in  the  eyes  of  those  from  whom  we  differ.  On 
his  side,  moreover,  Mr.  Bancroft  was  not  a  man  to  disarm  dis- 
like. He  was  combative,  he  could  say  bitter  things,  and  he 
said  them  freely.  Then  he  was  the  Democratic  candidate  for 
governor,  secretary  of  the  navy  in  Folk's  cabinet,  and  min- 
ister to  England.  When  he  returned  to  the  United  States 
he  abandoned  Boston,  where  he  was  so  disliked,  and  made 
his  home  in  New  York.  There  I  first  met  him,  although  I 
had  known  all  about  him  from  my  earliest  years,  for  my 
mother  had  always  maintained  her  friendship  with  him.  I 
was  a  boy  of  fourteen  when  I  was  taken  to  dine  at  his  house, 
and  I  well  remember  the  occasion,  the  kindness  and  hospital- 
ity, and  Mr.  Bancroft's  sharp  incisive  talk.  Among  other 
things  I  recall  his  saying  that  astronomers  had  recently 
calculated  that  the  earth  as  a  home  for  man  would  last 
only  twenty-five  million  years  longer.  It  seemed  to  me 
a  most  depressing  statement,  and  I  lay  awake  some  time 
that  night  thinking  over  the  approaching  destruction  of 
the  world. 

During  these  years  of  politics  and  public  service  the 
" History  of  the  United  States"  was  begun  and  carried 
steadily  forward.  This  is  not  the  place  to  criticise  or  ex- 
amine Mr.  Bancroft's  great  work.  The  florid  style  and  the 
apostrophes  to  freedom  and  equality  characteristic  of  the 
first  edition  and  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  followers  of  Jef- 
ferson and  Jackson  have  lost  their  charm  and  now  obscure 
the  merits  of  his  history  and  the  enormous  labor  which  it 
represented.  But  whatever  the  demerits  of  the  style  or 
the  opinions,  Mr.  Bancroft  rendered  an  inestimable  service 
to  American  history  by  his  thorough  research,  his  examina- 
tion of  huge  masses  of  manuscripts,  and  by  bringing  to  light 
an  almost  unlimited  amount  of  original  material  never 
touched  before,  and  without  which  the  story  of  the  colonies 
and  the  Revolution  could  never  have  been  known  or  prop- 


316  EARLY  MEMORIES 

erly  told.  For  these  labors  the  debt  of  the  American  people 
and  of  all  later  historians  and  students  of  American  history 
to  Mr.  Bancroft  is  very  great  indeed. 

After  my  first  meeting  with  Mr.  Bancroft  in  New  York 
I  did  not  see  him  again  for  many  years,  but  when  I  returned 
from  Europe  and  started  to  collect  material  for  my  life  of 
my  great-grandfather  I  began  to  correspond  with  him,  and 
after  that  we  kept  up  a  constant  intercourse.  I  can  never 
forget  his  help,  his  encouragement,  his  unfailing  kindness 
to  me,  and  his  interest  in  all  I  was  doing  and  writing.  Then 
later,  in  Washington,  I  was  much  at  his  house.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  he  was  as  quick,  as  alert,  as  sharp  of  speech  in 
those  closing  years,  as  at  any  time.  Until  the  very  last,  age 
did  not  wither  him,  and  he  used  to  ride  and  walk  and  talk  as 
if  he  were  sixty  instead  of  eighty.  He  had  a  great  deal  of 
caustic  humor,  vast  knowledge  of  all  kinds,  and  was  a  most 
interesting  and  entertaining  companion.  There  was  in  his 
nature  a  vein  of  hardness,  and  he  was  a  good  hater  both  in 
life  and  in  history.  But  he  was  an  able  man,  a  devoted 
American,  an  earnest  patriot,  and  to  me  the  kindest  of 
friends.  He  had,  no  doubt,  mellowed  with  age,  but  the  qual- 
ities which  had  made  him  unpopular  were  never  shown 
to  me,  although  I  can  conceive  that  in  his  younger  days  he 
may  well  have  been  a  formidable  and  also  an  irritating  op- 
ponent. I  am  writing  at  the  table  on  which  he  wrote,  and  a 
picture  of  himself  which  he  gave  me  hangs  close  by.  They 
awaken  only  pleasant  memories  of  a  kind  and  helpful  friend- 
ship, and  bring  before  my  eyes  the  slender,  alert  figure,  the 
snow-white  beard,  the  keen  eyes,  and  the  quick  speech  which 
made  Mr.  Bancroft  so  long  one  of  the  marked  figures  of 
Washington.  He  had  outlived  the  old  hostilities  and  was 
revered  and  respected  by  every  one;  honored  by  successive 
Congresses  as  a  man  who  had  done  great  work  both  in  wri- 
ting and  in  making  history.  I  am  going  to  give  here  a  few 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  317 

of  his  letters  which  will  show  the  qualities  I  have  tried  to 
describe  better  than  any  words  of  mine. 

Mr.  Howe,  in  his  most  excellent  biography,  has  very 
properly  chosen  the  letters  dealing  with  matters  of  imme- 
diate or  historical  moment.  Of  necessity  they  are  grave 
and  elaborate  in  proportion  to  their  importance.  Those 
from  which  I  select  are  the  little  notes  of  friendship,  hastily 
written,  concerned  with  slight  and  passing  incidents  of  the 
day,  of  no  deep  import  either  in  politics  or  history.  But 
they  show  a  side  of  Mr.  Bancroft  which  his  more  serious 
letters  do  not  disclose;  the  side  which  certainly  appeared  to 
friends  for  whom  he  cared,  even  if  the  world  never  saw  it. 
In  these  letters  his  humor  and  his  love  of  fun  come  out;  while 
through  them  runs  at  the  same  time  a  vein  of  sentiment  and 
affection  which  it  seems  to  me  now  very  pleasant  to  recall. 
The  letters  which  I  have  gathered  together  from  their  rest- 
ing-places begin  with  one  to  my  great-uncle,  Dr.  Kirkland,  on 
his  resignation  of  the  presidency  of  Harvard  College,  a  letter 
full  of  enthusiasm,  admiration,  and  gratitude  to  the  good 
man  to  whom  Mr.  Bancroft  felt  that  he  owed  much.  This 
letter  was  written  in  1828;  and  the  others  to  my  mother, 
to  my  father,  and  to  me,  come  down  across  the  years  to 
1888.  From  this  long  period  of  sixty  years  I  choose  a  few, 
beginning  with  some  to  my  mother  when  she  was  a  young 
girl,  advising  her  as  to  her  reading  and  studies: 

The  hermit  hopes  that  his  friend  is  not  given  up  to  gloom, 
that  she  selects  for  topics  such  melancholic  subjects  as  the  re- 
treat of  the  ten  thousand  and  the  fall  of  Empires! 

(Addressed,  without  date  or  signature,  to  Miss  Cabot.) 

This  month  I  saw  the  moon  over  my  right  shoulder,  and  I 
prepared  myself  for  good  luck.  But  little  did  I  dare  to  expect 
that  my  gray  hairs  would  be  honored  with  the  present  of  the  most 


318  EARLY  MEMORIES 

beautiful  purse  that  young  hands  ever  knit.  I  shall  keep  your 
precious  gift,  dear  Miss  Cabot,  among  the  choicest  of  my  man- 
itous  and  pray  heaven  to  teach  me  gratitude. 

Most  sincerely 

Your  obliged 
Oct.  26.  GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

Here  is  Sir  John  Caldwell's  favorite  volume  of  Rousseau. 
The  Confession  of  the  Savoyard  Vicar  with  which  it  opens  is  world- 
renowned.  Despise  Cottin;  or  rather  commiserate  Beranger's 
songs.  I  have:  Lamartine's  poems;  Casimir  de  la  Vigne;  some 
things  of  Chateaubriand.  All,  my  dear  Miss  Cabot,  at  the  serv- 
ice of  your  class.  I  can  select  beautiful  detached  passages  of 
Rousseau;  Of  Voltaire  have  you  read  Nanine? 

With  profound  respect  as  is  fitting 

faithfully  yrs 
Wednesday.  G.  BANCROFT. 

On  this  fourth  day  of  March  1841,  Mr.  Bancroft  cannot 
repress  the  expression  of  his  exultation  at  discovering  a  transcen- 
dental neighbor.  Cousin  has  written  no  system:  his  works  are 
fragmentary;  all  which  Mr.  B.  has,  and  entirely  at  the  service  of 
Miss  Cabot.  But  this  little  volume  of  Damiron  contains  an  out- 
line and  history  of  the  whole  brood  of  eclectics,  and  furnishes  a 
pleasant  introduction  for  one  wishing  information  on  the  state  of 
opinion  in  France,  as  expressed  by  Cousin  and  his  compeers. 

DEAR  MRS.  LODGE— 

Mrs.  Bancroft  would  neither  let  me  read  her  letter,  nor  add  a 
postscript;  so  I  blew  a  kiss  into  the  letter  which  you  will  please 
give  to  Lillie  Lodge.  I  had  a  word  to  say,  but  with  best  regards 
to  Mr.  Lodge,  time  would  not  let  me  say  how  strongly  I  am  at- 
tached to  old  and  faithful  friends.  Ever  my  dear  Mrs.  Lodge, 

Very  truly  yrs 
Feb.  3 — '47  GEORGE  BANCROFT 

Mrs.  Bancroft  overlooks  me  and  says  this  note  is  not  worth 
much.  For  myself  I  set  a  value  on  the  slightest  testimony  of 
regard. 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  319 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

You  have  not  been  out  of  my  mind,  chlre  amie,  since  I  left 
America;  and  in  token  of  it  I  beg  to  send  you  the  homes  of  the 
poets  done  in  India  ink  on  napkins  by  a  fair  dame  of  Scotland. 
Your  brother  in  law  dwells  in  my  memory,  and  on  arriving  in 
London,  if  I  am  absent,  he  will  find  a  letter  for  him  to  Mr.  Rush, 
who  is  a  little  too  old  for  the  Meridian  of  Paris,  and  the  Secretary 
of  Legation  will  look  after  him.  I  say,  if  I  am  absent,  which  on 
my  own  account  I  should  very  much  regret;  for  as  you  do  not  let 
us  see  you,  as  we  expected,  I  desire  very  much  to  get  news  of  my 
vis-a-vis,  my  true  friend,  who  heaped  upon  me  kindnesses  and 
whom  I  never  forget.  Indeed  I  cannot  buy  a  ticket  to  hear  Jenny 
Lind  or  pay  a  debt  of  any  kind  without  being  reminded  of  my 
debt  of  gratitude  to  you.  For  while  one  of  my  purses  is  treas- 
ured up  as  a  talisman,  the  other  is  my  constant  companion. 

Betty,  my  wife,  has  never  seen  the  continent.  So  I  shall, 
tomorrow  night,  take  her  across  the  Channel  to  Ostend  and  show 
her  Cologne  and  the  Rhine,  the  Alps  and  their  glaciers,  Geneva 
and  its  lakes;  with  Chamouni  and  perhaps  Altdorf  and  the  Lake 
of  Lucerne;  and  I  shall  leave  her  the  option  of  her  route  back, 
only  she  must  return  quickly.  Louise  we  leave  at  school  in  Geneva 
and  my  boys  must  plod  at  Greek  and  Latin  at  Vevey.  It  will  be 
two  years  before  we  sleep  under  a  roof  in  America,  two  years  more 
that  my  household  Gods  must  be  travellers  and  sojourners. 

Give  my  best  regard  to  your  father  and  to  your  husband  and 
remain  my  dear  Mrs.  Lodge  the  true  friend  of 

Your  affectionate  cousin  and  friend 

GEORGE  BANCROFT 
90  EATON  SQUARE 
31  August  1847 

To  John  E.  Lodge1 

NEW  YORK  26  February — 1851 

Blessed  be  the  discoverers  of  tea,  dear  Mr.  Lodge,  and  blessed 
be  the  good  "Padre"  and  the  good  friend  that  has  enabled  us  to 

JMy  father  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  China  merchant  and  always  imported 
for  himself  and  his  friends  some  chests  of  especially  fine  and  rare  tea.  The 
Dragon  was  a  curio,  but  that  was  long  before  the  days  of  Japanese  and 
Chinese  collections  and  probably  interested  Mr.  Bancroft  very  slightly. 


320  EARLY  MEMORIES 

inhale  its  delicious  fragrance  and  enjoy  its  delicate  and  exhilara- 
ting power.  The  tea  came  as  you  intended  and  we  were  all  im- 
patience to  enter  upon  the  experimental  knowledge  of  its  excel- 
lence. And  be  sure,  it  is  the  nicest  black  tea  I  have  tasted  for 
many  a  long  day.  My  wife  is  still  more  enraptured  with  it;  so 
she  has  deputed  to  my  tempered  and  moderating  admiration  the 
pleasing  office  of  acknowledging  your  kindness.  For  a  good  cup 
of  tea,  what  a  blessing  it  is!  And  how  constantly  the  benefit  re- 
turns! Evening  and  morning,  as  regularly  as  the  hymns  of  Adam 
and  Eve  in  Paradise,  the  delicious  beverage  is  prepared;  and  I 
assure  you,  in  sober  earnest,  it  is  as  good  tea  as  I  ever  tasted. 
For  the  Dragon,  I  am  not  so  good  a  judge;  and  I  have  been  so 
pleased  with  the  "Padre"  that  I  shall  not  readily  divide  my  hom- 
age at  present  with  anything  else. 

I  am  glad  you  returned  safely  and  found  the  babies  well.     I 
hope  you  like  us  so  much  that  you  will  soon  come  again.     Give 
our  love  to  Mrs.  Lodge;  remind  your  daughter  of  us;  make  our 
regards  acceptable  to  Mr.  Cabot  and  believe  me 
My  dear  Mr.  Lodge 
Very  truly 

Your  obliged 

GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

Saturday  8  July  (1876) 

DEAR   COUSIN,    RELATIVE   AND    FRIEND, 

Learn  to  do  just  homage  to  Brooks  Adams.  I  lend  you  his 
precious  oration;  but  do  not  be  misled  into  the  idea  that  it  was 
Lincoln  who  received  the  sword  of  Cornwallis. 

I  dreamed  last  night  of  our  drive  over  Indian  Cliff,  and  our 
finding  our  way  into  Paradise  Avenue  as  tho'  it  had  been  made 
for  us. 

Yours  devotedly 

GEORGE  BANCROFT 

7  July  77 

MY  DEAR   COUSIN   AND   FRIEND! 

The  rabbit  said  to  the  lioness,  you  have  but  one  son:  True, 
said  the  lioness,  but  my  only  son  is  a  lion.  I  congratulate  you  on 
having  a  son  who  joins  a  devoted  affection  for  his  mother  with 
the  superior  ability  and  seriousness  of  character  which  his  life  of 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  321 

George  Cabot  displays.  Nothing  could  make  me  more  happy, 
than  to  have  a  son  or  grandson  who  would  write  a  book,  marked 
by  such  exhaustive  research,  such  manly  independence  and  such 
substantial  impartiality  of  statement,  while  his  heart  was  throb- 
bing with  the  intensest  devotedness  to  the  love  of  family  and 
home.  The  work  of  Mr.  Lodge,  which  I  have  read  or  rather 
studied  from  the  first  word  to  the  last  with  the  closest  attention, 
is  the  most  important  contribution  to  our  history  that  has  been 
made  for  many  a  day. 

I  am  ever  dear  Mrs.  Lodge,  with  truth  and  affection,  your 
servant  relative  and  friend. 

GEORGE  BANCROFT 

Dr.  Palfrey,  Mr.  Bancroft's  contemporary  and  his  senior 
by  only  four  years,  was  kind  enough  to  give  me  advice  and 
help  when  I  was  beginning  my  historical  work,  and  I  am  glad 
that  I  have  among  my  letters  a  few  from  him.  But  he  was 
then  so  old  a  man,  and  living  in  such  retirement  at  Cam- 
bridge, that  my  acquaintance  with  him  never  went  beyond 
the  correspondence.  I  regret  that  this  should  have  been  the 
case,  not  only  because  I  greatly  admired  Dr.  Palfrey's  "His- 
tory of  New  England,"  a  monument  of  unwearying  research 
and  of  precise  and  careful  narrative,  but  also  because  Dr. 
Palfrey  had  been  one  of  the  antislavery  leaders  and  had 
fought  the  good  fight  in  the  darkest  days  with  unwavering 
courage  and  constancy.  He  was  one  of  the  oldest  of  the 
"human-rights  statesmen"  who  rose  to  control  in  Massa- 
chusetts and  in  the  nation,  and  passed  early  from  the  stage 
when  those  who  followed  him  or  fought  by  his  side  were 
predominant.  All  that  remains  to  me  is  the  pleasant 
memory  of  the  kindness  of  an  old  and  eminent  man,  dis- 
tinguished in  politics  and  letters,  to  a  young  fellow  just 
entering  life. 

One  other  American  historian  of  that  time,  who  was 
nearly  a  generation  younger  than  Palfrey  and  Bancroft,  but 
yet  associated  with  them  in  my  memories,  I  knew  well, 


322  EARLY  MEMORIES 

and  my  remembrance  of  Francis  Parkman,  his  friendship 
and  unvarying  kindness  to  me,  are  among  the  best  of  the 
possessions  which  are  assured  to  me  by  the  grim  security 
of  the  past. 

Some  years  ago  Theodore  Roosevelt  and  I  published  a 
little  volume  entitled  "Hero  Tales  of  American  History," 
and  I  found  a  subject  for  one  of  the  tales  which  I  tried  to 
tell  in  the  life  of  Parkman.  One  does  not  look  usually  to 
the  lives  of  historians  and  men  of  letters  for  examples  of 
heroism,  and  yet  if  there  ever  was  a  heroic  life  and  a  victory 
of  will  and  courage  over  pain  and  infirmity,  it  was  that  of 
the  man  who  wrote  the  books  which  tell  the  story  of  the 
great  struggle  between  France  and  England  for  the  control 
of  the  American  continent.  For  many  years  practically 
blind,  never  able  to  use  his  eyes  except  in  the  most  limited 
way,  crippled  at  times  physically  by  affections  of  the  nerves, 
a  constant  sufferer  from  sleeplessness  and  intense  pain  in 
the  head,  he  examined  difficult  manuscripts,  toiled  through 
dusty  archives,  amassed  material  for  an  almost  untouched 
subject,  and  wrote  a  great  history  in  many  volumes.  If  he 
had  simply  cared  for  his  health  and  borne  without  complaint 
that  long  disease,  his  life,  those  who  knew  him  would  justly 
have  wondered  at  and  admired  such  fortitude.  But  he 
trampled  pain  and  infirmity  under  foot,  performed  an  amount 
of  labor  which  would  have  been  heavy  for  the  strongest,  and 
if  ever  there  was  a  high  and  victorious  spirit  it  was  his.  As 
to  his  work,  I  agree  with  my  friend  Mr.  Rhodes  that  it  is 
the  one  achievement  of  an  American  historian  which  be- 
longs to  that  small  number  of  histories  which  never  become 
obsolete  and  are  never  superseded.  There  is  no  room  for 
the  discovery  of  new  material  sufficient  to  supplant  his  story 
or  seriously  modify  his  conclusions.  It  will  be  no  more 
possible  for  the  future  historians  of  the  American  continent 
to  push  Parkman  aside  than  it  is  for  new  writers  on  the 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  323 

Roman  Empire  or  the  early  Middle  Ages  to  relegate  Gibbon 
to  obscurity  or  remove  him  from  the  lonely  height  which  he 
occupies  with  Thucydides  and  Tacitus.  So  thorough  was 
Parkman's  work  that  but  little  new  material  exists  un- 
touched by  him;  and  his  histories  have,  moreover,  the  endur- 
ing qualities  of  precision,  fairness,  and  dignity,  as  well  as  a 
finished  and  simple  style,  usually  somewhat  cold  but  capable 
of  rising  to  great  heights,  as  in  the  chapter  which  describes 
the  victory  and  death  of  Wolfe  and  the  defeat  and  death 
of  Montcalm,  heroic  figures  both. 

I  remember  well  seeing  Mr.  Parkman  when  I  was  a  boy, 
and  he  made  an  impression  on  my  memory  and  imagination 
which  is  vivid  to  this  day.  A  tall,  slender  figure  in  a  long 
gray  coat,  with  a  fur  cap,  in  winter,  drawn  down  close  over 
his  head,  he  would  come  walking  up  Beacon  Street  moving 
with  great  rapidity,  a  heavy  cane  in  each  hand,  on  which 
he  rested  his  weight  and  by  which  he  propelled  himself. 
Going  at  a  tremendous  pace,  he  would  suddenly  stop  as  if 
exhausted  and  lean  against  a  house  or  a  railing.  Then  in  a 
few  minutes  he  would  resume  his  canes,  and  push  away  as 
though  he  were  running  a  race.  I  learned  afterwards  that  he 
was  at  that  time  much  crippled,  and  that  only  in  this  way 
could  he  get  air  and  exercise;  but  he  could  not  move  deliber- 
ately and  his  intense  nervous  energy  drove  him  forward  with 
restless  rapidity,  although  every  exertion  was  a  pain  to  him. 
I  remember  asking  my  mother  who  the  gentleman  was 
who  thus  arrested  my  wandering  attention,  and  she  ex- 
plained to  me  that  it  was  Mr.  Frank  Parkman  and  told  me 
what  a  battle  for  life  he  was  compelled  to  make. 

When  I  came  to  know  him  after  my  return  from  Europe 
he  was  much  better.  He  walked  normally,  he  was  one  of 
the  corporation  of  Harvard  College,  he  was  able  to  go  about 
and  see  his  friends,  now  and  then  he  dined  out,  but  not 
often,  for  his  sleep  was  still  insecure  and  his  eyes  required 


324  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  most  delicate  and  constant  care.  I  found  on  nearer 
view  that  the  striking  figure  of  my  boyhood  was  accom- 
panied by  a  face  and  look  even  more  striking.  All  Mr. 
Parkman's  features  were  irregular.  Under  analysis  I  do 
not  suppose  one  of  them  could  have  justly  been  praised  as 
handsome.  Yet  I  have  seldom  seen  a  finer  face.  What- 
ever the  details,  the  effect  was  that  of  beauty;  intellect, 
force,  character,  breeding,  distinction,  were  all  there  in  his 
strongly  marked  features,  and,  despite  all  he  had  passed 
through,  so  powerful  had  been  his  will  that  he  had  no  ex- 
pression of  suffering  nor  in  the  least  the  look  of  an  invalid. 
My  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Parkman  began,  as  did  that 
with  Mr.  Bancroft,  and  was  continued  in  roses.  Both  were 
rose-growers  and  most  successful.  Mr.  Parkman,  however, 
carried  his  pursuit,  taken  up  when  he  could  not  work  at  his 
history,  to  the  perfection  of  a  profession.  He  not  only 
won  prizes  everywhere  with  his  roses,  but  he  wrote  a  most 
excellent  book  in  regard  to  them  and  their  cultivation.  The 
manner  in  which  he  dealt  with  this  amusement  was  very 
characteristic.  He  pursued  the  occupation  with  relentless 
energy  until  he  had  made  himself  complete  master  of  his 
subject  and  attained  the  highest  degree  of  excellence. 
Spurred  by  these  illustrious  examples,  I,  too,  began  to  cul- 
tivate roses,  and,  writing  to  Mr.  Bancroft  and  Mr.  Parkman 
for  information,  received  the  most  cordial  advice  and  help 
from  both,  which  enabled  me  to  succeed  in  growing  the  most 
beautiful  of  flowers  sufficiently  well  to  give  myself  much 
pleasure  until  absorption  in  other  and  more  serious  occupa- 
tions compelled  me  to  turn  my  bushes  over  to  my  gardener. 
From  that  time  forward  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Park- 
man and  talked  with  him  freely  about  politics  and  history 
and  the  affairs  of  the  college.  He  dined  with  us  occasionally, 
came  to  see  us  frequently,  and  was  most  kind  to  my  children, 
who  thought  him  the  best  of  companions,  for  he  had  the 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  325 

qualities  which  attracted  children,  although  I  do  not  think 
that  side  of  his  character  was  generally  appreciated,  any 
more  than  his  abundant  humor,  sometimes  a  little  grim  but 
always  very  real  and  true.  He  was  a  perfectly  fearless  man 
and  would  set  forth  unpopular  opinions  with  an  entire  dis- 
regard of  consequences.  As  he  expressed  all  his  views  on 
any  subject  with  a  most  incisive  vigor,  no  one  was  ever  in 
doubt  as  to  what  he  thought.  But  the  memory  which  dwells 
with  me  was  of  his  constant  kindness  and  sympathy  freely 
given  to  a  very  young  man,  of  the  patience  with  which  he 
would  listen,  the  help  and  advice  which  he  would  give,  and 
the  freedom  with  which  he  would  discuss  all  subjects,  inter- 
esting me  very  much  and  teaching  me  more. 

From  the  historians  I  come  to  the  poets,  the  makers, 
members  of  that  goodly  company  which  during  the  cen- 
turies of  recorded  time  have  sung  to  us  and  rejoiced  the  heart 
of  mankind,  and  who  out  of  their  imagination,  whether  in 
verse  or  prose,  have  created  men  and  women  often  more 
real  to  us  than  those  who  march  in  the  pageant  of  human 
history.  The  first  poet  I  ever  saw  was  Mr.  Longfellow. 
He  lived  at  Nahant  in  summer,  and  his  love  of  the  place, 
of  the  sea  and  shore,  of  the  lights  and  shadows  and  sounds 
of  the  ocean,  is  told  in  many  charming  verses.  As  a  boy  I 
saw  him  constantly  and  gazed  upon  him  with  a  distant  awe 
because  I  had  read  and  recited  many  of  his  ballads  and  nar- 
rative poems,  and  a  real  poet  in  the  flesh  seemed  very  won- 
derful to  me.  In  those  early  days  I  naturally  did  not  talk 
with  him,  but  it  was  much  to  me  then  to  have  seen  him.  I 
have  often,  as  I  have  recalled  that  dream-like  past,  had 
Browning's  lines  come  to  my  lips: 

"Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain? 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you? 
And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new!" 


326  EARLY  MEMORIES 

No  men  more  unlike  than  Longfellow  and  Shelley  could  be 
conceived.  As  poets  they  not  only  cannot  be  compared, 
but  they  cannot  even  be  named  together,  so  far  did  Shelley 
outsoar  Longfellow,  as  indeed  he  outsoared  almost  all  other 
poets  of  the  modern  world.  Yet  I  like  to  think  that  as  a 
boy  I  saw  Longfellow  plain,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  must 
have  been  much  pleasanter  to  live  with  than  the  "pard- 
like  spirit"  whose  fevered  life  ended  in  the  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean. 

Yet  although  I  had  often  seen  Longfellow  as  a  boy,  I 
did  not  really  know  him  until  after  my  return  from  Europe. 
Then  in  various  ways  I  came  to  see  him  frequently.  He  was 
Sumner's  most  intimate  friend  and  loved  him  with  a  deep 
loyalty  of  affection.  Sumner,  as  I  have  said,  divided  his 
time  at  Nahant  every  year  between  Mr.  Longfellow  and 
ourselves.  The  result  was  that  I  dined  at  Mr.  Longfellow's 
and  went  there  often  to  see  Mr.  Sumner,  and  he  dined  with 
us,  not  only  to  meet  Sumner,  but  my  father-in-law,  Admiral 
Davis,  who  was  a  lifelong  friend  of  the  old  Cambridge  time. 
In  those  days  when  I  saw  him  Mr.  Longfellow  was  very 
quiet,  invariably  gentle,  but  usually  silent  while  others 
talked,  although  he  always  listened  sympathetically.  I  used 
to  imagine  that  he  had  grown  silent  since  the  tragic  death  of 
his  wife,  and  that  the  shadow  of  that  sorrow  never  lifted. 
Occasionally  I  met  him  on  his  walks,  and  then  he  would 
allow  me  to  join  him  and  talked  much  more  than  when  others 
were  present.  It  was  most  delightful  to  be  with  him,  for  he 
seemed  so  calm,  so  removed  above  the  storms  of  life,  and  yet 
always  so  kind,  so  very  gentle,  and  so  sympathetic.  But 
the  gentleness  implied  nothing  soft  or  indefinite.  He  held 
strong  opinions  and  was  without  fear.  I  remember  well  at 
a  dinner  which  my  mother  gave  for  Mr.  Schurz,  when  he 
delivered  in  Boston  his  eulogy  upon  Sumner,  I  sat  next  to 
Mr.  Longfellow.  Mr.  Schurz  was  an  accomplished  speaker. 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  327 

His  address  had  been  received  with  great  applause  and  I 
had  fallen  in  with  the  current,  and  without  analysis  was  in  a 
mood  of  uncritical  admiration,  although  I  cannot  now  recall 
a  word  that  Mr.  Schurz  said,  nor  did  he  give  me  a  thought 
or  a  phrase  which  has  remained  with  me.  I  asked  Mr. 
Longfellow  if  he  did  not  think  Mr.  Schurz 's  address  very 
fine.  "No,"  he  replied,  with  clear  decisiveness;  "it  was  a 
clever  speech,  but  I  do  not  believe  in  proceeding  by  nega- 
tions. I  did  not  wish  to  have  him  tell  us  what  Sumner  was 
not,  but  what  he  was."  Under  the  gentle  manner  now  and 
then,  if  he  were  roused  by  anything,  or  if  his  indignation 
was  excited  there  would  come  a  flash  in  his  eyes  and  a  look 
in  his  face  which  made  one  feel  the  presence  of  a  strong 
nature  and  strongly  suggested  that  his  own  "Viking  bold" 
was  numbered  among  his  ancestors. 

He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  handsome,  as  so  rarely 
happens,  in  his  old  age,  with  his  clear  blue  eyes  and  snow- 
white  hair  and  beard.  Inseparable  from  him  was  the  air 
of  distinction  and  high  breeding  without  a  trace  of  egotism 
or  any  suggestion  that  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  fame, 
which,  however  men  may  differ  as  to  his  poetry,  was  as 
wide  as  the  language  in  which  he  wrote,  and  which  had  con- 
quered recognition  in  other  tongues.  He  had  read  widely 
and  well,  and  one  always  felt  the  presence  of  the  scholar 
when  one  was  with  him.  As  an  English  critic  said  at  the 
time,  Mr.  Longfellow  was  always  an  artist,  and  his  respect 
for  his  art  and  his  refined  taste  were  perfectly  apparent  in 
the  converse  of  daily  life.  He  comes  back  to  me  now  as  a 
very  noble  figure  of  those  early  days,  and  I  like  to  think 
that  he  was  one  of  the  men  I  knew.  I  will  give  one 
little  note  from  him,  not  because  it  has  any  intrinsic  im- 
portance, but  because  it  shows  how  ready  he  was  out  of 
sheer  kindness  of  heart  to  extend  a  helping  hand  to  a  young 
man  to  whom  he  had  given  his  friendship.  With  Mr.  John 


328  EARLY  MEMORIES 

T.  Morse,  Jr.,  I  had  just  taken  up  the  editorship  of  the 
International  Review,  and  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Longfellow  asking 
if  he  would  not  send  us  a  poem  for  publication.  This  was 
his  reply: 

CAMBRIDGE,  March  18th  1879 

DEAR  MR  LODGE 

I  am  sorry  I  have  not  something  more  elaborate  to  send  you 
for  the  International  than  these  two  stanzas.  They  are  enough, 
perhaps,  to  show  you  my  good-will,  and  being  short,  stand  a 
better  chance  of  being  read  than  if  they  were  longer. 

I  am  glad  you  have  taken  the  Review  and  hope  it  may  be 
fully  successful.  For  that  you  have  my  best  wishes. 

Yours  very  truly 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW 

Then  follows  the  little  poem  entitled  "  Jugurtha"  written 
out  in  his  own  clear,  precise  hand. 

Mr.  Emerson  I  saw  at  the  Historical  Society  and  on  one 
or  two  other  occasions.  I  cannot,  and  I  deeply  regret  that 
I  cannot,  say  that  I  really  knew  him.  When  I  saw  him  I 
watched  him  with  the  deepest  interest,  although  I  was  then 
far  from  realizing  what  a  truly  great  man  he  was  and  that  I 
was  in  the  actual  presence  of  one  of  the  remarkable  minds 
of  the  century;  poet,  thinker,  creator  of  ideas,  planter  of 
thoughts  which  were  to  grow  up  and  flower  in  alien  soils  to 
which  the  very  name  of  him  who  sowed  the  seed  was  un- 
known. Tall,  thin,  with  a  face  full  of  intellect,  unscarred 
by  passion,  in  a  way  remote  in  look  and  yet  with  such  human 
sympathy  and  feeling  in  the  regard  that  no  one  could  call 
it  ascetic,  he  seemed  to  me  a  man  whose  mere  appearance 
must  have  impressed  the  most  careless  gazer.  The  last 
time  I  saw  him  was  at  the  Historical  Society,  where  he  read 
a  little  paper  in  memory  of  Carlyle.  His  mind  had  begun 
to  fail,  or  rather  his  characteristic  absent-mindedness  had 
increased.  His  daughter  was  with  him  to  help  him  with 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  329 

his  papers.  All  that  he  said  had  the  old  charm,  but  there 
was  a  slight  touch  of  sadness,  of  pathos  about  it.  His 
words,  as  Lowell  says  of  Villon's  famous  line, 

"Ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan," 

seemed  "to  falter  and  fade  away  in  the  ear  like  the  last 
stroke  of  Beauty's  passing  bell."  The  occasion  on  which  I 
remember  Mr.  Emerson  best  was  at  a  dinner  at  my  mother's 
house,  to  which  I  have  already  referred  in  connection  with 
Mr.  Longfellow,  on  the  occasion  of  the  Schurz  eulogy  upon 
Sumner,  April  29,  1874.  By  some  lucky  accident  I  made  a 
note  of  it  in  one  of  the  many  diaries  which  in  the  ardor  of 
youth  I  was  continually  beginning,  only  to  drop  them  into 
some  convenient  oubliette  with  their  little  writing  and  their 
many  blanks.  I  find  from  my  notes  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Schurz  and  their  daughter,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  and  Dr. 
Holmes  were  the  guests.  Then  the  note  continues:  "Long- 
fellow as  always  very  silent  except  to  his  next  neighbor 
(who  happened  to  be  myself).  Emerson  also  very  quiet. 
Only  one  remark  of  his  I  remember.  Dr.  Holmes  was 
describing  a  dynamometer,  or  contrivance  for  measuring 
memory,  with  great  enthusiasm.  The  machine  was  his 
own  invention.  Emerson  listened  in  silence  and  then  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  'Such  things  are  very  disagreeable  to  me.; 
The  beauty  of  Emerson's  smile  is  very  striking.  I  never 
saw  so  winning  and  attractive  a  smile  in  a  man.  Holmes 
talked  well  and  drew  Schurz  out  and  into  a  very  interest- 
ing talk  about  debating."  So  the  meagre  entry  in  the  diary 
ends,  but  I  am  glad  to  have  even  so  poor  a  record  of  an 
evening  that  still  dwells  in  my  memory. 

"Holmes  talked  well,"  says  the  note.  When  did  he  not 
talk  well?  Good  talk  at  the  dinner-table,  or  after  dinner, 
or  by  the  fireside— I  mean  the  best  talk— is  very  rare.  It 
is  much  rarer  than  is  generally  supposed,  for  I  am  excluding 


330  EARLY  MEMORIES 

tete-a-tete  and  mean  talk  to  a  group,  with  others  present  to 
talk  and  listen.  I  think  I  have  heard  some  of  the  best 
talkers  of  my  time.  "They  were  not  many,  they  who  stood 
upon  the  heights,"  but  I  am  sure  of  their  quality.  John 
Hay,  Mr.  Evarts,  Lord  Rosebery,  Mr.  Balfour,  Lord  Mor- 
ley,  Henry  Adams,  Mr.  Speaker  Reed,  Mr.  Lowell,  Mr. 
T.  B.  Aldrich,  Dr.  Holmes;  these  seem  to  me  the  best.  I 
am  speaking  only  of  after-dinner  talk,  an  art  by  itself.  I 
could  cover  the  page  with  the  names  of  men  of  ability  to 
whom  it  was  always  a  pleasure  to  listen  and  whose  talk  has 
been  to  me  an  admiration  and  delight,  appealing  to  every 
faculty  and  stimulating  every  nerve.  But  the  talk  to  the 
little  company  around  the  table  or  by  the  fire,  which  it  is 
impossible  to  define  exactly,  is  peculiar  in  its  requirements 
and  demands  an  especial  combination  of  qualities.  It  must 
have  humor,  wit,  and  seriousness,  all  three.  It  demands 
wide  knowledge  of  books  and  men.  The  anecdote  it  uses 
must  be  apt  to  the  highest  degree  and  sparingly  employed. 
It  must  pierce  deeply  and  yet  touch  lightly.  In  a  word,  it 
must  have  charm,  that  impalpable  attribute  which  no  one 
can  define  but  which  in  absence  or  in  presence  is  at  once 
recognized.  Among  those  men  whom  I  have  just  men- 
tioned it  would  be  invidious  even  to  attempt  a  rank-list,  but 
I  may  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  in  this  most  difficult  art  I  do 
not  think  Dr.  Holmes  was  surpassed  by  any  one.  In  fact, 
I  have  referred  to  it  only  to  define  Dr.  Holmes.  In  this  talk 
he  seemed  to  me  to  be  gifted  with  every  one  of  the  rare 
qualities,  still  rarer  in  conjunction,  which  the  art  requires. 
His  wit  and  humor  were  boundless  and  always  on  the  alert. 
His  memory  was  extraordinary  and  his  knowledge  in  all  di- 
rections remarkable.  His  curiosity  was  insatiable  and  had 
taken  all  learning  for  its  province,  while  at  the  same  time  it 
made  him  eager  to  know  the  experience  and  thoughts  of 
every  one  else,  no  matter  how  young  or  insignificant  the 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  331 

every  one  else  might  be.  This  rendered  the  monologue,  the 
great  danger  of  all  brilliant  talkers,  impossible  to  him,  and 
made  him  as  good  in  listening  as  he  was  in  speech,  a  very 
uncommon  combination.  His  criticism  was  frank  and  tell- 
ing, sometimes  severe,  but  never  harsh  or  wounding,  and  my 
impression  was  always  strong  of  his  kindness  and  sympathy. 
We  all  were  so  used  to  him  in  Boston  that,  much  as  we 
loved  and  admired  him,  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  never  did 
him  full  justice. 

When  he  was  a  very  young  man,  just  beginning  the  prac- 
tice of  medicine,  he  placed  a  card  on  his  door  bearing  these 
words:  "The  smallest  fevers  thankfully  received  and  grate- 
fully acknowledged."  Every  one  laughed,  but  it  hurt  him 
professionally,  although  he  was  a  most  accomplished  phy- 
sician and  an  admirable  teacher  of  anatomy,  upon  which 
he  lectured  for  half  a  century.  It  is  a  perilous  thing  to 
make  people  look  to  you  habitually  for  a  laugh  if  you  are 
trying  to  do  serious  work  in  the  world.  If  a  man  is  sus- 
pected of  not  taking  himself  seriously  there  is  danger  that 
other  people  will  fail  to  do  so.  Everybody  loves  the  jester 
who  jests  well,  but  those  who  listen  and  laugh  are  apt  to  for- 
get that  under  the  jest  of  a  really  brilliant  man  the  most  seri- 
ous purpose  may  be  hidden.  No  one  jested  more  or  better 
than  Lincoln;  the  joke  was  often  his  armor  of  defence,  and 
yet  no  man  ever  lived  with  a  higher  seriousness  of  purpose  or 
who  did  a  mightier  work.  I  have  always  thought  that  the 
stories  about  Lincoln  and  his  own  jokes  were  a  powerful  rea- 
son for  the  misapprehension  from  which  he  suffered  in  his 
lifetime  and  unduly  protracted  the  period  which  passed  be- 
fore he  came  into  his  own.  I  remember  very  well  one  day  in 
the  House  Mr.  S.  S.  Cox,  then  a  member  from  New  York, 
and  one  of  the  ablest  Democrats  in  the  House,  as  he  was 
the  wittiest  and  cleverest  in  public  life,  when  I  was  laughing 
at  some  criticism  which  he  had  uttered,  said  with  a  touch  of 


332  EARLY  MEMORIES 

bitterness:  "If  I  were  six  feet  tall  instead  of  five  feet  six  and 
had  never  made  a  joke  I  should  be  in  that  chair  (pointing  to 
the  Speaker's  place)  and  not  on  the  floor.  The  people  like 
those  who  make  them  laugh,  but  they  will  never  give  the 
highest  places  to  anyone  whom  they  do  not  think  serious." 
John  Allen,  of  Mississippi,  who  was  in  the  House  with  me, 
was  a  man  of  great  humor  and  drollery.  Whenever  he  arose 
the  House  prepared  to  laugh,  and  generally  with  good  reason. 
But  when  he  tried  to  make  a  serious  speech — and  he  could 
make  a  very  good  one,  and  held  serious  opinions  on  many 
subjects — the  House  would  not  listen  to  him,  of  which  I 
have  heard  him  complain. 

This  Nemesis  of  the  jester,  the  humorist,  and  the  wit 
hung  over  Dr.  Holmes,  I  think.    Indeed,  he  says  himself: 

"While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  banquet's  Lords 
My  heart  within  was  tuned  to  deeper  chords." 

People  listened  with  delight  to  the  occasional  verses  which 
flowed  so  readily  whenever  asked,  and  which  sparkled  and 
glittered  with  a  never-failing  freshness,  and  they  forgot  too 
often  that  the  same  hand  had  written  "The  Chambered 
Nautilus."  They  rejoiced  in  the  good  things,  the  repartees, 
the  quick  jests  which  he  gave  out  with  utter  profusion  to 
any  one  he  met,  and  they  did  not  remember  that  he  was 
also  a  great  writer,  a  creator  of  characters,  of  fine  imagina- 
tion, with  a  large  seriousness  of  purpose  and  full  of  tender 
and  beautiful  thoughts.  The  "Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast 
Table "  is  a  great  as  well  as  a  brilliant  book,  and  so,  too,  in 
perhaps  a  slightly  less  degree,  are  its  successors.  It  is  brim- 
ming over  with  wit  and  wisdom,  with  sentiment  and  feeling. 
It  is  full  of  curious  learning  and  of  passages  which  strike 
deep,  of  reflections  upon  the  meaning  of  life  and  of  the  uni- 
verse marked  by  anticipations  of  those  Eastern  philosophies 
with  which  the  world  has  grown  more  familiar  during  the 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  333 

last  fifty  years.  The  "Autocrat"  is  far  better  reading  than 
the  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  of  which  the  Doctor  himself 
was  so  fond.  It  is  quite  worthy  to  stand  on  the  same  table 
by  the  bedside  with  Montaigne  and  Tristram  Shandy.  As 
Dogberry  says,  "comparisons  are  odorous,"  but  I  know  one 
reader  who  loves  all  three  and  prefers  the  "Autocrat"  to 
either  the  French  gentleman  or  the  English  parson,  brilliant 
as  they  both  were.  In  due  time  the  "Autocrat"  will  come 
to  its  own  as  one  of  the  world's  best  books  in  that  small, 
rare  class  of  which  Montaigne  may  now  be  taken  as  the 
accepted  exemplar. 

Dr.  Holmes  is  one  of  my  earliest  and  strongest  memories. 
Mrs.  Holmes  was  a  cousin  of  my  mother,  and  I  heard  the 
Doctor  quoted  and  spoken  about  from  the  days  when  I  first 
"took  notice."  To  me,  as  a  boy,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
^  familiar  figures  in  the  town,  as  indeed  he  was  to  every  one 
in  Boston.  Short,  erect,  alert  in  every  fibre,  he  passed 
along  the  streets,  the  embodiment  of  vivid  existence;  the 
long,  capacious  head  with  its  intellectual  forehead,  the  keen, 
kindly  eyes,  the  mouth  drawn  down  in  a  quizzical  way  at 
the  corners,  would  all  impress  the  most  careless  with  a  sense 
of  power,  intelligence,  and  humor,  if  one  took  the  trouble 
to  look  twice.  Carlyle  pored  over  portraits  as  among  the 
most  important  documents  for  history,  and  I  think  any  one 
who  studied  Dr.  Holmes's  face  and  expression  would  have 
found  them  a  book  in  which  could  be  read  not  only  strange 
but  many  other  interesting  matters.  When  I  try  to  recall 
him  to  my  mind,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  I  always  think  of 
him  first  on  the  occasion  of  the  breakfast  given  to  him  by 
the  publishers  of  the  Atlantic  to  celebrate  his  seventieth 
birthday.  The  company  consisted  in  the  main  of  the  con- 
tributors to  the  Atlantic,  and  included  many  well-known 
writers  and  distinguished  men.  When  Dr.  Holmes  rose  to 
respond  to  the  heartfelt  felicitations  and  expressions  of  ad- 


334  EARLY  MEMORIES 

miration  and  affection  which  had  poured  in  upon  all  sides, 
the  applause  was  followed  by  a  hush  of  the  kind  which  im- 
plies a  deeper  feeling  than  any  shouts  or  plaudits  can  mani- 
fest. Then  it  is  that  he  stands  before  me  again  as  I  think 
of  him.  The  short,  alert  figure,  the  face  so  full  of  the  keenest 
and  highest  intelligence,  the  humorous  look,  not  there  at 
that  instant  but  in  its  stead  the  evidence  of  restrained  emo- 
tion. He  then  read  his  poem,  "  The  Iron  Gate."  His  voice, 
slightly  veiled,  always  had  a  peculiar  quality  which  was  very 
effective,  and  never  more  so  than  on  that  day.  There  are 
many  very  beautiful  lines  in  that  poem,  but  then  it  was  all 
suffused  with  a  feeling  which  was  more  affecting  than  any 
verse.  When  he  concluded,  he  had  moved  his  audience  so 
much  that  no  one  felt  ready  to  speak  because  there  was 
something  the  matter  with  his  throat,  and  no  one  saw  very 
clearly  because  his  eyes  seemed  a  little  dim.  There  could 
have  been  no  greater  tribute  of  affection,  no  clearer  confes- 
sion of  the  power  of  the  orator  or  of  the  art  of  the  poet.  I 
see  him  again  very  vividly  at  the  annual  meeting  of  the 
Historical  Society,  April  17,  1882,  when  he  delivered  an 
address  on  Longfellow.  "He  closed  by  reading  a  poem,  the 
last  written  by  the  dead  poet,  and  also  one  of  his  own. 
The  address  was  very  interesting  and  often  brilliant,  show- 
ing very  strongly  his  wonderful  preservation  of  freshness." 
So  runs  the  mechanical  entry  in  the  diary,  but  the  com- 
monplace words  do  not  picture  the  central  figure  of  that  day 
as  I  see  it  in  the  procession  of  the  ghosts  of  thirty  years  ago. 
The  abundant  hair  had  turned  white,  but  age  had  not 
withered  him;  the  fire,  the  charm,  the  tenderness  awakened 
by  the  thoughts  of  his  departed  friend,  were  all  there,  un- 
faded  and  undimmed. 

As  the  years  passed  by,  and  after  I  had  left  college,  I 
came  much  nearer  to  him  than  merely  repeating  his  verses 
or  looking  at  him  with  admiration.  I  came  to  know  him 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  335 

well,  and  I  shared  in  the  affection  which  all  who  knew  him 
well  felt  for  him.  He  dined  with  us  frequently  in  Boston, 
and  came  often  to  our  house  at  Nahant,  especially  when 
Admiral  and  Mrs.  Davis,  to  whom  he  was  a  devoted  friend, 
were  with  us.  There  are  one  or  two  places  or  one  or  two 
views  indelibly  associated  with  him  in  my  mind.  Standing 
in  the  hall  of  my  house  and  looking  north  one  sees  Egg  Rock 
with  its  lonely  lighthouse  just  framed  in  by  the  glass  set  in 
the  upper  half  of  the  door.  Coming  one  day  to  luncheon, 
the  Doctor  paused  and  looked  at  the  rock,  remarking  on  its 
picturesqueness.  I  said,  "Yes,  it  is  very  picturesque,  but 
it  is  not  always  a  pleasant  place  to  live  in  winter.  Last 
winter  the  weather  was  so  severe,  and  there  was  so  much 
floating  ice,  that  the  keeper  could  not  get  ashore  for  six 
weeks.  During  that  time  his  wife  died,  and  he  placed  the 
body  in  the  outhouse  where  it  froze  stiff.  When  the  weather 
broke  he  took  the  body  ashore  in  his  dory,  buried  it,  and 
brought  off  another  wife  the  same  night,  in  the  same  dory." 
The  Doctor  laughed,  and  then  said:  "But  there  is  the  sub- 
ject for  a  poem  in  that  story.  It  would  begin  something  in 
this  way: 

"Her  corpse  begemmed  with  frozen  tears, 
I  now  to  earth  restore." 

Another  day  we  were  strolling  about  the  place  and  stopped 
on  an  abrupt  headland  to  look  out  over  the  ocean.  It  was 
a  lovely  summer  afternoon  with  a  light  air  just  ruffling  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  water.  The  Doctor  looked  down, 
and  then  quoted  Tennyson's  beautiful  line: 

"The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls." 

"The  wrinkled  sea,"  he  repeated;  "how  perfect!  Why 
didn't  I  think  of  that;  I  might  have."  It  was  on  another 


336  EARLY  MEMORIES 

occasion,  of  which  this  little  story  reminds  me,  that  he  said 
to  me  what  I  have  often  quoted:  "Every  man  who  writes 
or  speaks  with  any  success  will  once,  or  perhaps  twice  or 
three  times,  do  a  little  better  than  he  knows  how.  You  will 
some  day.  I  did  when  I  wrote  '  The  Chambered  Nautilus.' " 
It  was  profoundly  true,  but  I  suppose  some  people  might 
say  that  it  was  vain  in  him  to  refer  to  his  own  poem.  I 
thought  his  doing  so  in  that  connection  the  reverse  of  vain. 
He  was  accused  of  vanity,  but  if  he  had  that  quality  it  was 
joined  with  a  most  generous  admiration  of  others.  It  was  a 
vanity  which  went  hand  in  hand  with  an  intense  interest  in 
the  experiences,  the  opinions,  and  the  thoughts  of  other 
people,  no  matter  how  young  or  how  obscure.  It  was  a 
vanity  which  never  grated  on  any  one  else's  feelings.  He 
undoubtedly  took  a  delight  in  his  own  success  and  achieve- 
ments. But  his  pleasure  was  as  frank  and  simple  as  that 
of  a  child.  He  was  far  too  clever  not  to  appreciate  his  own 
cleverness,  and  why  should  he  not  have  shown  that  appre- 
ciation? When  Thackeray  was  writing  the  great  scene  in 
which  Rawdon  Crawley  discovers  Becky  alone  with  Lord 
Steyne,  as  he  wrote  the  words:  "Even  at  that  moment,  she 
admired  her  husband,  strong,  victorious,  triumphant/ '  he 
flung  down  his  pen,  as  we  are  told,  and  cried  out:  "By  God, 
that's  genius!"  A  stroke  of  genius  it  certainly  was,  and  I 
always  loved  him  for  saying  so.  It  was  so  much  more  human 
and  more  real  to  cry  out  the  truth  and  rejoice  in  it.  Only 
the  petty  soul  would  call  it  vanity  and  try  to  pick  a  flaw  in  a 
man  who  was  creating  lives  and  characters  more  real  per- 
haps, certainly  more  lasting,  than  those  among  which  our 
waking  days  are  spent.  No  one  could  have  been  kinder  or 
more  generous  in  appreciation  of  others,  or  more  sympathetic 
with  them,  especially  with  young  men,  than  Dr.  Holmes.  I 
know  from  my  own  experience  how  more  than  kindly  he  al- 
ways was.  After  I  had  entered  Congress  he  would  write  to 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  337 

me  about  my  speeches,  and  in  a  way  which  showed  that  he 
had  read  something  which  I  had  said,  a  not  over-common 
mark  of  interest,  especially  from  an  old  and  very  distin- 
guished man  to  a  young  and  quite  undistinguished  one. 
For  my  own  satisfaction  I  will  give  two  of  his  notes  to  me 
which  bring  out  this  very  attractive  trait  in  his  character: 

296  BEACON  STREET 
March  14,  1893 

MY  DEAR  CABOT 

I  have  just  finished  reading  your  speeches  which  you  have 
kindly  sent  me  and  for  which  I  return  you  my  sincere  thanks.  I 
do  not  often  read  the  pamphlets  and  books  sent  me,  but  I  could 
not  sit  down  and  thank  you,  as  we  all  have  to  in  many  cases, 
without  opening  the  leaves  of  the  gift  we  have  received.  I  could 
not  do  that  because  you,  Cabot  Lodge,  whose  course  I  have  watched 
with  pride  and  interest,  were  its  author.  And  having  once  begun 
reading  I  could  not  help  keeping  on.  The  patriotism,  the  manly 
sense  and  eloquent  enthusiasm  of  these  truly  American  addresses 
were  like  the  injection  of  pure  blood  from  a  young  man's  arteries 
into  my  old  veins.  Every  sentiment  is  generous,  every  aspiration 
is  that  of  one  who  loves  his  country  and  is  proud  of  it. 

I  hope  the  way  will  be  clear  before  you,  that  your  influence 
may  find  full  scope  for  action  and  that  the  whole  country  may 
reap  a  full  harvest  from  your  fast  ripening  talents. 
Believe  me 

Faithfully  and  affectionately 
Yours 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

296  BEACON  STREET 

April  9th  1892 

DEAR  MR.   LODGE 

I  write  you  a  few  words  which  only  ask  for  one  word  in  reply. 
Where  does  your  quotation  about  the  "fringy  edges  of  battle" 
come  from? 

Always  faithfully 
Yours 

O.  W.  HOLMES 


338  EARLY  MEMORIES 

In  the  last  he  shows  not  only  that  he  had  read  the  speech, 
but  he  could  not  be  easy  until  he  knew  the  author  of  the 
lines  I  had  quoted,  although  it  seems  odd  that  he  should 
not  have  recognized  them  as  coming  from  dough's  "Dip- 
sychus."  1  But  the  eager  curiosity  in  the  largest  sense,  the 
desire  to  know  and  learn,  went  with  him  to  the  end.  He 
said  more  than  once  that  he  should  like  to  live  on  because 
he  was  anxious  to  know  what  was  going  to  happen.  He 
lived  to  a  ripe  age,  keeping  always  his  alertness  of  mind  as 
well  as  his  quick  sympathy,  writing  now  and  again  verses 
full  of  tenderness  and  feeling,  and  with  the  old  wit  flashing 
up  almost  to  the  very  last.  After  his  death  it  seemed  as 
if  a  part  of  the  city  itself  had  gone,  when  the  voice  which 
had  charmed  it  for  so  many  years  and  so  long  spoken  for 
it  to  the  world  at  large  suddenly  fell  silent. 

Mr.  Lowell,  the  youngest  of  the  famous  group,  was,  of 
course,  a  familiar  figure  to  me  in  Cambridge,  and  a  very 
fine  and  strong  figure  he  was  as  we  students  saw  him  striding 
along  with  a  stout  stick  in  his  hand,  usually  in  a  rough,  short 
jacket  and  no  overcoat,  with  a  very  slouch  hat  on  his  head. 
But  what  a  noble  head  it  was,  with  the  big  beard  just  turn- 
ing gray,  the  handsome  features,  the  deep,  penetrating  eyes, 
and  the  leonine  look,  a  thought  terrifying  or,  rather,  awe- 
inspiring  to  heedless  youth  fondly  supposed  to  be  in  pursuit 
of  a  liberal  education.  As  I  have  said,  I  had  enough  sense 
to  take  his  course  in  English  literature  but  not  sufficient  to 
take  also  his  course  on  Dante,  which  I  have  bitterly  re- 
gretted ever  since,  all  the  more  because  those  who  were  wise 
enough  to  do  so  were  asked  to  his  house,  and  there  he  would 
discourse  to  them  .of  the  great  poet  who  covered  all  Italy 
with  his  hood.  In  later  years  I  came  to  know  him  quite 

JThe  lines  were: 

"For  high  deeds  haunt  not  the  fringy  edges  of  the  fight, 
But  the  pell-mell  of  men." 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  339 

well.  I  recall  him  and  Mrs.  Lowell  at  my  sister's  house, 
and  remember  hearing  him  one  summer  day  after  a 
luncheon,  at  which  Dr.  Holmes  was  also  present,  discourse 
upon  the  Jews.  He  was  possessed  with  that  subject  at  the 
time,  and  he  insisted  that  the  Jewish  blood  was  every- 
where; that  it  ran  in  all  our  veins;  that  Lowell  was  a  cor- 
ruption of  Lowe,  a  Jewish  name  of  the  days  when  the  chosen 
people  were  forced  to  take  the  names  of  animals.  He  was 
most  brilliant  and  entertaining,  if  not  scientifically  sound, 
and,  I  think,  took  much  satisfaction  in  his  own  extrava- 
gances. Here  is  the  dry  contemporary  record  of  that  day 
by  the  sea  which  dwells  so  happily  in  my  memory: 

Aug.  30—1876. 

Lunched  yesterday  at  G.  A.  J.'s  with  Lowell  and  Holmes. 
Had  much  talk  with  the  former.  He  has  a  mania  about  Jews, 
believes  they  are  absorbing  the  power  of  the  world;  have  posses- 
sion of  the  money  and  the  European  press  etc.  The  number  of 
prominent  names  of  Jewish  origin  which  he  cited  was  astonishing. 

He  said  Leigh  Hunt  told  him  that  Shelley  looked  like  a  spirit 
just  descended  from  Heaven  and  about  to  reascend. 

He  said  that  the  first  time  he  ever  met  Landor,  the  conver- 
sation turning  on  Italy,  he  remarked  that  he  had  visited  Lan- 
dor's  villa  at  Fiesole.  "Ah,"  said  Landor,  "a  lovely  place  from 
which  that  intolerable  woman  keeps  me  out."  The  "intolerable 
woman"  was  his  wife.  Lowell  said  the  "Gebir"  was  more  Mil- 
tonic  than  anything  in  modern  literature. 

Asked  Lowell  and  Holmes  who  Photius  was  of  whom  Macaulay 
speaks.  Neither  knew.  Looked  it  up  and  found  to  my  horror 
that  the  author  of  the  Myriobiblion  was  the  Photius  of  history, 
the  Photius  of  the  Schism.  Here  was  a  nice  piece  cf  ignorance 
not  to  have  connected  the  two  as  one  and  the  same  person. 

The  allusion  to  Photius  occurs  in  the  "History  of  Eng- 
land," when  Macaulay,  writing  of  learning  at  Oxford, 
speaks  of  "  Greek  Literature  from  Homer  to  Photius."  I 
fear  that  I  should  not  now  regard  with  "horror"  a  failure 


340  EARLY  MEMORIES 

to  connect  the  author  of  the  "  Myriobiblion "  with  the 
famous  Photius  of  the  ninth  century,  who  led  in  the  schism 
of  the  Eastern  and  Western  churches,  or  regard  it  as  such  a 
"piece  of  ignorance"  as  I  did  at  twenty-six.  It  seems  to 
me  in  these  days,  when  studies  in  the  history  of  the  dark 
ages  lie  so  far  behind  me,  a  venial  forgetfulness. 

For  many  years  while  Lowell  was  in  Spain  and  England 
I  saw  nothing  of  him,  but  after  his  return  I  met  him  fre- 
quently. He  dined  with  us  more  than  once  when  we  lived 
in  Mount  Vernon  Street,  and  most  delightful  he  was.  He 
resembled  Dr.  Johnson,  I  think,  in  liking  to  have  his  talk 
out,  and  there  was  never  better  talk  than  his.  He  told  us 
much  of  his  experiences,  and  although  years,  and  still  more 
sorrow,  had  aged  him  and  he  often  seemed  sad,  yet  when  he 
was  roused  and  interested  there  was  no  abatement  in  his 
brilliancy  and  charm.  Of  all  that  talk  so  enjoyed  at  the 
moment,  one  little  anecdote  which  he  told  has  always  re- 
mained in  my  memory.  He  said  that  when  he  had  just 
arrived  in  England,  Lord  Coleridge,  who  was  reputed  to  be 
the  best  after-dinner  speaker  in  London,  said  to  him:  "  You 
will  be  asked  very  often  to  make  an  after-dinner  speech  and 
I  wish  to  tell  you  how  such  a  speech  should  be  made.  Select 
your  anecdote  beforehand.  When  you  are  called  upon,  lead 
up  to  your  anecdote,  tell  it,  go  gently  away  from  it  and  your 
speech  is  made."  It  was  excellent  advice,  as  sound  as  it 
was  witty,  but  I  felt  that  the  greatest  humor  in  the  story 
lay  in  Lord  Coleridge  telling  Lowell  how  to  make  an  after- 
dinner  speech,  for  Lowell  was  a  past-master  in  that  art,  and 
I  have  never  heard  any  one  on  such  occasions  who  even 
approached  him.  He  seemed  to  combine  every  quality 
that  a  speaker  should  possess.  His  voice  was  singularly 
fine  and  his  enunciation,  which  is  rare,  was  quite  perfect, 
with  an  intonation  that  cannot  be  described  but  which  was 
singularly  attractive.  Many  men  make  clever  speeches, 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  341 

full  of  good  points  and  very  telling.  Lowell  not  only  had  wit 
and  humor  in  abounding  measure,  but  he  had  also  the  imag- 
ination of  the  poet,  the  literary  touch,  a  finished  style,  and 
a  knowledge  of  all  literature  such  as  very  few  men,  indeed, 
ever  possess.  I  have  heard  him  often  in  serious  addresses 
as  well  as  in  the  lighter  moments  of  an  after-dinner  speech, 
and  I  always  listened  to  him  with  envious  delight. 
Even  his  slightest  words  seemed  to  have  a  peculiar  charm. 
I  can  see  him  now  on  our  Commencement  day,  when  he 
spoke  of  some  of  the  early  benefactors  of  the  college  of 
whom  nothing  was  known  and  who  have  become  mere 
names  to  a  grateful  posterity.  I  seem  to  hear  again  the 
beautiful  voice  as  he  said:  "There  is  William  Pennoyer  of 
whom  we  know  nothing,  except  that  he  comes  down  to  us  in 
that  most  graceful  of  attitudes  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket." 

The  wit  which  shone  and  the  epigram  that  sparkled 
through  all  his  writings  were  generously  given  out  in  con- 
versation. He  was  not  a  miser  and  did  not  hoard  up  his 
humor,  his  learning,  or  his  wit.  They  are  also  in  his  letters 
with  much  more  that  is  profoundly  serious.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  some  day  all  his  letters,  in  their  entirety,  will  be 
given  to  the  world  without  being  arranged  and  selected  to 
suit  the  tastes  or  prejudices  of  an  editor.  He  was  one  of 
the  best  of  letter-writers  and  at  a  time  when  that  delightful 
art  had  begun  to  decline.  We  should  have  them  all,  for  we 
desire  to  know  the  writer  and  not  the  editor.  We  wish  to 
read  the  letters  for  their  own  sake  and  learn  Lowell's  real 
thoughts  and  opinions  from  year  to  year  and  not  what 
some  one  else  believed  those  thoughts  and  opinions  ought  to 
have  been. 

There  was  one  other  poet  who  belonged  also,  in  his  way, 
to  the  human-rights  statesmen  in  the  middle  of  the  century 
whom  I  knew  only  slightly,  but  none  the  less  personally, 
toward  the  end  of  his  career.  In  1884  the  defection  from 


342  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  Republican  ranks  caused  by  the  nomination  of  Mr. 
Elaine  drew  Whittier  from  his  retirement  to  the  defence  of 
the  party  in  whose  traditions  and  principles  he  profoundly 
believed.  When  that  party  found  itself  in  real  danger  of 
defeat  he  came  at  once  to  its  support  and  gave  his  name  as 
vice-president  at  some  of  our  large  meetings  and  exerted  his 
influence  in  every  way  in  behalf  of  Mr.  Elaine.  This  brought 
me,  as  chairman  of  the  Republican  State  Committee,  in 
contact  with  him,  for  Whittier  was  an  ally  who  in  those 
days  was  a  tower  of  strength.  He  wrote  me  occasionally 
about  political  conditions  in  Essex  County  and  I  met  him 
frequently.  Very  plain  and  simple  in  person  and  dress, 
rather  silent,  and  most  gentle,  he  had  about  him  an  atmos- 
phere of  purity  and  at  the  same  time  of  power  which  one 
felt  at  once.  Beneath  the  quiet  look,  the  gentle  speech,  the 
silent  manner  were  the  courage  and  fortitude  so  character- 
istic of  the  people  called  "  Quakers."  He  had  all  the  quali- 
ties of  his  ancestry,  the  dauntless  spirit  obedient  only  to  the 
inner  voice,  the  fearless  nature,  and  the  utter  indifference 
alike  to  the  physical  danger  of  mob  violence  and  to  the  hos- 
tile opinion  of  fashionable  society  or  of  those  who  were  fond 
of  describing  themselves  as  the  "better  element."  This  is 
not  the  place  for  literary  criticism  or  for  an  analysis  of 
Whittier's  poetry,  because  I  am  writing  only  of  the  man  as 
I  remember  him.  But  he  was  like  his  poetry,  and  there 
were  many  of  his  poems  which  I  knew  by  heart  and  had 
recited  at  school  as  many  another  New  England  boy  had 
done.  There  was  much  tenderness  and  sweetness  as  well 
as  much  righteous  indignation  against  wrong  in  all  his 
verse.  Although  in  that  as  in  all  else  he  was  simple  and 
without  pretence,  he  was  a  genuine  poet.  The  verse,  like 
the  man,  always  rang  true.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  he 
came  nearer  to  the  popular  heart  and  was  more  the  poet  of 
the  people  than  any  one  else  in  our  literature.  Having  for 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  343 

a  long  time  held  this  opinion,  I  was  interested  to  find  a 
wholly  disinterested  critic,  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  in  his  "  His- 
tory of  English  Literature,"  published  only  a  year  ago, 
writing  as  follows :  "  If  we  insist  that  a  very  young  literature 
must  produce  for  inspection  her  national  poet  (and  Mr. 
Lowell  says  that  foreign  critics  made  this  demand  very 
early  indeed)  the  poet  cannot  be  Poe  and  Whitman  is  hardly 
eligible.  Whittier  seems  so  far  to  be  the  best  candidate 
for  the  bays." 

"Many  admirers  of  Burns  will  be  eager  to  confess  that 
Whittier's  ' Snow-Bound'  has  merits  superior  to  the  Ayr- 
shire ploughman's  companion  piece,  'The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night.'  " 

Certain  it  is  that  the  simple,  often  artless,  verse,  fre- 
quently full  of  vigor  or  tenderness,  touched  the  hearts  of 
those  who  never  saw  Whittier,  just  as  the  plain,  quiet, 
rather  austere  man,  looking  like  a  New  England  farmer,  won 
without  effort  the  affection  of  those  who  had  the  happiness 
to  know  him.  One  reason  for  this,  of  course,  was  the  quick 
sympathy  of  the  poet's  nature.  Some  years  after  the  Blaine 
campaign,  when  I  was  a  young  congressman  in  the  receipt 
of  more  kicks  than  halfpence,  Whittier,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  for  a  long  time,  wrote  me  the  following  note: 

AMESBURY,  MASS., 

February  17,  1891 

DEAR  FRIEND, 

Let  me  thank  thee  for  thy  manly  speech.  It  has  the  ring  and 
is  worthy  of  the  best  days  of  Massachusetts — of  Webster  and 
Sumner  and  John  Quincy  Adams.  I  am  truly  thy  friend. 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

I  was  not  misled  at  the  moment  by  the  generous  overpraise 
of  a  now  quite  forgotten  speech  any  more  than  I  am  to-day. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  deserved  to  be  classed  with 


344  EARLY  MEMORIES 

the  three  men  he  mentioned.  If  such  an  idea  had  crossed 
my  mind  at  any  time  I  should  not  print  the  note  here,  but 
then  as  now  those  kind  words,  so  helpful  as  they  were  to  me, 
touched  my  heart  when  I  read  them,  and  in  their  warm 
sympathy  they  show  why,  like  so  many  others  to  whom  that 
firm  and  gentle  voice  has  spoken,  whether  from  the  written 
paper  or  the  printed  page,  I  hold  Whittier  in  affectionate 
remembrance. 

So  the  remarkable  literary  group  of  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century  in  New  England  ends.  But  there  were 
two  others  much  younger  than  these  but  older  than  I,  with 
whom  I  was  thrown  in  the  days  of  which  I  am  writing, 
whom  I  may  venture  to  call  my  friends,  and  to  whose  friend- 
ship and  kindness  I  look  back  with  many  thoughts  of  happy 
days  and  pleasant  intercourse.  One  is  William  D.  Ho  wells, 
in  regard  to  whom  it  is  a  happiness  to  be  able  to  use  the 
present  tense.  The  other  was  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  who 
died  prematurely  at  the  age  of  the  Psalmist,  still,  as  it 
seemed,  with  that  flush  of  youth  upon  him  which  it  was  his 
happy  fortune  always  to  retain. 

I  met  them  both  at  the  outset  of  my  career  in  literature, 
to  use  a  large  term,  simply  because  it  is  most  convenient, 
for  a  very  small  and  modest  performance.  They  were  in 
succession  editors  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  they  were 
good  enough  in  that  capacity  to  accept  some  writings  of 
mine  for  publication.  In  this  way  I  came  to  know  them 
well,  I  think,  and  with  much  affectionate  regard  on  one  side 
at  least.  Mr.  Howells  I  knew  first.  He  lived  for  many 
years  in  Cambridge  and  Boston,  and,  after  I  had  made  his 
acquaintance,  editorially,  I  saw  much  of  him  in  other  ways. 
Then  as  now  he  was  a  most  accomplished  man.  He  had  a 
very  quiet  and  gentle  manner,  coupled  with  a  great  deal  of 
dry  humor,  and  very  strong  and  definite  opinions  upon 
many  subjects  outside  of  literature.  He  was  a  thorough 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  345 

Republican  in  politics;  but  in  politics  as  well  as  in  literature, 
he  had  marked  radical  tendencies  which  I  found  most  in- 
teresting and  suggestive.  In  the  one  case  he  leaned  toward 
what  is  usually  called  socialism;  in  the  other  he  was  a  cham- 
pion of  realism,  just  then  very  much  pressed  as  the  one  true 
theory  of  art,  and  advocated  on  the  basis  of  being  a  revolt 
against  romanticism.  A  reaction  against  the  romanticism 
which  had  driven  out  the  formalism  and  conventional 
methods  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  sure  to  come,  espe- 
cially when  the  romantic  movement  had  run  to  extremes 
and  had  degenerated  very  often  into  sentimentality  as  is 
apt  to  happen  in  all  great  movements  in  literature  and  art. 
But  the  realism  so  fashionable  and  so  much  lauded  during 
the  latter  half  of  the  last  century  was  not  infrequently  quite 
as  unreasoning  and  violent  as  the  theory  and  practice  which 
it  sought  to  overthrow.  Its  most  conspicuous  professors, 
in  Europe  at  least,  in  their  revolt  from  the  unreal,  rushed  to 
the  other  extreme,  and  apparently  would  have  us  suppose 
that  a  true  picture  of  life  is  to  be  found  only  in  the  gutter, 
the  brothel,  or  the  jail.  They  mistook  a  part  for  the  whole 
quite  as  completely  as  the  worst  of  those  whom  they  aimed 
to  overthrow.  The  truth  is  that  the  greatest  romanticists 
have  also  been  the  greatest  realists.  The  imagination  of  the 
highest  genius  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  most  complete 
realism.  Homer  and  Dante,  and  Shakespeare,  greatest  of 
poets,  have  a  realism,  that  is  a  truth  to  the  eternal  qualities 
of  human  nature,  which  no  professed  and  exclusive  realist 
has  ever  approached.  And  no  realist  of  genuine  literary 
worth  ever  existed  who  had  not  in  him  a  strong  imagination 
and  a  touch  of  romance.  Mr.  Howells  schooled  himself  to 
write  in  the  most  realistic  vein,  and  to  depict  the  various 
commonplaces  of  daily  life  with  the  utmost  truth,  and  with 
great  success,  as  he  amply  proved  by  such  books  as  "The 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,"  "The  Lady  of  the  Aroostook,"  and 


346  EARLY  MEMORIES 

many  others.  But  he  had  abundant  imagination  as  well  as 
the  touch  of  the  poet,  without  which  he  could  not  have  suc- 
ceeded in  such  ample  measure.  One  summer  he  passed  at 
Nahant,  where  he  occupied  an  old  place  with  gardens  fallen 
to  decay  and  a  "belvedere,"  a  remnant  of  the  romantic 
times,  which,  half  ruinous,  still  overhung  the  sea,  and 
watched  the  waves  sweep  back  and  forth  and  the  tides  crawl 
in  and  out  across  a  wide  expanse  of  shining  sand.  When  I 
went  to  see  him  we  talked  about  the  old  garden  and  the 
"belvedere"  and  presently  a  book  came  forth  which  was  born 
of  his  imagination,  to  which  the  forsaken  garden  by  the  sea 
and  the  old  summer-house  had  appealed.  It  was  a  charm- 
ing story,  one  of  his  best,  I  thought,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
pure  romance  of  the  finest  kind.  He  talked  of  it  in  a  half- 
apologetic  way,  as  I  thought,  but  "c'etait  plus  fort  que  lui" 
— the  imagination  when  once  awakened  could  not  be  curbed 
by  any  theory  of  realism.  I  have,  however,  no  intention  of 
discussing  the  somewhat  large  question  of  realism  and  ro- 
manticism in  literature,  which  in  its  essence  has  a  good  deal 
about  it  of  the  conventional  shield  with  two  sides,  and  yet 
always  the  same  shield.  Still  less  do  I  mean  to  analyze  the 
delightful  art  and  writings  of  Mr.  Howells,  although  I  have 
read  all  his  books  and  criticisms  with  much  pleasure  and  in- 
struction. My  thought  here  is  of  Mr.  Howells  himself;  the 
scholar,  the  man  of  letters,  the  author  already  distinguished; 
who  was  so  helpful  and  sympathetic  to  the  quite  undistin- 
guished and  unknown  young  man  who  wished  to  publish 
an  occasional  article  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  The  debt  of 
gratitude  for  his  goodness  to  me  in  encouraging  my  attempts 
to  write,  and  for  his  admitting  me  to  his  friendship,  is  what 
I  wish  to  record  here,  however  imperfect  and  inadequate  the 
expression  may  be. 

Of  Mr.  Aldrich,  his  successor  in  the  Atlantic  editorship,  as 
it  happened,  I  saw  much  more,  for  he  never  deserted  Boston 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  347 

for  New  York,  as  was  the  case  with  Mr.  Ho  wells.  He  was 
equally  kind  to  me  in  my  capacity  as  a  contributor,  and  in 
addition  we  became  very  warm  friends.  His  official  sanctum 
was  in  a  little  outlying  room  at  the  back  of  the  old  houses 
on  Park  Street,  which  had  been  converted  into  offices  for 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the  owners  and  publishers  of 
the  Atlantic.  Through  a  circuitous  path  and  up  a  winding 
staircase  this  room  was  reached  by  those  who  were  per- 
mitted to  enter  it.  It  looked  out  over  the  old  Granary 
Burying  Ground,  lying  peacefully  among  the  great  buildings 
which  surrounded  it  on  three  sides,  and  with  the  crowd  and 
traffic  of  Tremont  Street  passing  it  on  the  other.  One  might 
say  that  this  was  not  a  particularly  cheerful  prospect.  Yet 
it  was  none  the  less  a  very  pleasant  one.  It  was  an  ancient 
burial-place,  to  use  the  words  of  the  statute,  and  was  no 
longer,  or  only  very  rarely,  used  for  interment.  The  grave- 
stones were  of  the  plain  gray  slate  preferred  by  our  ancestors, 
the  few  more  stately  memorials  were  those  known  as  table 
tombs,  and  the  only  monument  at  all  conspicuous  was  the 
simple  granite  shaft  in  commemoration  of  the  parents  of 
Benjamin  Franklin.  Many  of  the  fathers  of  the  hamlet, 
many  of  the  eminent  men  of  past  times,  were  there  buried. 
It  was  as  utterly  different  as  could  well  be  imagined  from  the 
sprawling  stone-cutters'  yards,  glaring  with  white  marble 
and  polished  granite,  accentuated  by  monuments  and  figures 
of  every  variety  of  tasteless  ugliness,  which  now  serve  for 
cemeteries.  The  sunlight  fell  warmly  through  the  tall  elms 
upon  the  quiet  graves,  and  when  the  window  was  open  the 
city's  voice  came  to  us  in  a  subdued  murmur  as  if  it  was 
lowered  and  hushed  out  of  reverence  to  the  dead,  who  lay 
between. 

I  fell  into  the  habit  of  pausing  at  this  agreeable  room  in 
the  morning  when  I  had  occasion  to  go  down-town,  and  there 
I  used  to  sit  and  chat  with  Mr.  Aldrich.  He  was  an  active, 


348  EARLY  MEMORIES 

efficient,  and  most  successful  editor,  but  he  always  seemed 
to  have  time  to  spare,  and  he  never  made  me  feel  that  I  was 
interfering  with  his  work.  Realizing  very  fully  that  he  was 
a  busy  man,  I  was,  I  think,  careful  never  to  take  advantage 
of  his  good-nature,  although  it  was  difficult  to  tear  one's 
self  away  from  that  charming  companionship.  We  talked 
about  everything:  "Shakespeare  and  the  Musical  Glasses," 
"  Shoes  and  Ships  and  Sealing  Wax  and  Cabbages  andKings," 
everything  in  the  heavens  above  and  on  the  earth  beneath. 
There  was  never  a  more  delightful  talker.  He  had  wit  and 
humor  in  high  degree,  remarkable  power  of  epigrammatic 
statement,  a  whimsical  fancy,  an  intense  love  of  mere  fun 
and  jest,  and  behind  it  all  deep  seriousness  and  profound 
conviction  in  regard  to  all  things  which  were  really  important. 
His  criticisms  on  literature,  his  love  of  art  and  beauty  in 
every  form,  were  as  remarkable  as  his  inexhaustible  clever- 
ness and  his  skill  in  narration  no  matter  how  slight  the  sub- 
ject. He  told  me  much  of  his  earlier  days  in  New  York, 
and  I  remember  especially  an  account  he  gave  me  of  his 
narrow  escape  from  the  mob  of  the  draft  riot,  where  the  per- 
vasive humor  and  light  touch  seem  to  enhance  rather  than 
disguise  the  peril  he  had  been  in  and  the  black  doings  of 
those  evil  days.  Of  our  talks  at  that  time,  as  is  the  case 
with  so  many  others,  I  have  kept,  alas,  no  record.  They 
passed  like  the  joys  of  a  midsummer  day  spent  by  the  ocean's 
edge  and  left  only  the  memory  of  a  time  filled  with  sunshine 
and  light,  with  warmth  and  happiness. 

One  example  of  his  quickness  in  repartee  comes  up  to 
me  out  of  the  past.  He  gave  a  dinner  to  Matthew  Arnold 
when  the  latter  was  in  this  country.  Mr.  Arnold  sat  on 
his  right  hand,  Dr.  Holmes  on  his  left.  The  conversation 
turned  on  savages  and  cannibals,  and  Arnold  said  that  he 
often  wondered  what  he  should  do  under  such  disagreeable 
circumstances  if  he  happened  to  find  himself  among  them. 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  349 

"  Why,  pick  an  acquaintance,"  said  Aldrich.  The  reply  was 
so  like  one  of  his  own  that  it  is  said  to  have  depressed  Dr. 
Holmes  with  regret  that  he  had  not  thought  of  it  himself. 
Some  one,  I  suppose,  will  now  arise  and  point  out  that  the 
joke  was  made  by  Menander,  if  not  earlier,  but  it  struck 
me  at  the  time  as  new  and  good  and  very  characteristic 
of  Aldrich's  extreme  readiness. 

To  Aldrich  I  also  owed  the  opportunity  of  knowing  Edwin 
Booth,  who  was  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends.  Booth 
had  settled  in  Boston  and  had  taken  an  attractive  old  house 
on  Chestnut  Street,  with  the  end  to  the  street  and  the  front 
door  on  the  side,  opening  upon  a  pleasant  grass-plot  adorned 
then  with  a  little  fountain  and  a  small  conservatory  at  the 
back.  I  went  there  to  breakfast  one  morning  with  Aldrich 
and  Laurence  Hutton.  For  years  Booth  had  been  one  of 
my  great  admirations  on  the  stage,  and  I  was  eager  to  know 
him.  He  did  not  disappoint  me.  He  was  still  very  hand- 
some and  romantic-looking,  but  with  an  expression  of  in- 
effaceable sadness,  for  his  life  had  been  filled  with  sorrows. 
He  had  charming  manners,  very  quiet  and  gentle.  Although 
he  talked  but  little  he  was  very  sympathetic  and  was  a  most 
attractive  host.  I  breakfasted  there  again  with  Edmund 
Gosse,  who  had  brought  me  letters  and  had  dined  with  me 
the  night  before.  Mr.  Gosse  I  found  most  delightful,  and 
many  years  afterwards  I  had  the  pleasure  of  renewing  our 
acquaintance  in  London  when  I  dined  with  him  one  Sunday 
at  his  house. 

Aldrich  was  also  an  admirable  critic  and  I  learned  much 
from  him,  but  he  was  prone  to  criticise  his  own  works,  and 
he  was  so  fastidious  that,  unlike  most  writers,  after  his 
place  was  made  and  his  success  and  fame  attained  he  wrote 
less  and  less.  He  found  it  much  harder  to  satisfy  himself 
than  to  gratify  the  public.  He  has  left  poems  so  charming 
that  one  always  is  disposed  to  complain  that  there  are  not 


350  EARLY  MEMORIES 

more  of  them.  He  always  reminded  me  of  Gray,  whose 
standard  was  so  high  and  who  was  so  hard  to  please  that  he 
would  never  go  beyond  two  or  three  masterpieces,  and  even 
about  those  he  had  doubts. 

Mr.  Aldrich  always  seemed  the  very  embodiment  of  life, 
both  physical  and  intellectual,  and  I  little  thought  that  the 
day  was  ever  to  come  when  I  should  be  one  of  those  who 
were  chosen  to  bear  his  pall.  I  saw  him  constantly  as  long  as 
I  lived  in  Boston,  where  for  a  time  we  had  adjoining  houses. 
When  I  went  to  Congress  we  were  of  necessity  separated  in 
winter  and  our  summer  homes  were  far  apart.  But  when- 
ever we  met  he  was  always  the  same,  always  cheerful, 
abounding  in  wit,  kind,  sympathetic,  with  the  same  capacity 
for  indignation,  breaking  out  in  winged  words  against  every- 
thing that  was  mean,  wrong,  or  unworthy.  So  that,  little  as 
I  saw  him  in  the  later  years,  he  remained  one  of  the  poten- 
tialities which  are  often  so  much  to  us,  and  my  affection  and 
admiration  went  with  him  always,  undimmed  until  the  end 
came  all  too  soon. 

Thus  far,  in  speaking  of  the  men  whom  I  knew,  I  have, 
with  few  exceptions,  written  only  of  those  known  to  a  larger 
world  than  that  which  was  bounded  by  the  limits  of  Boston 
or  of  Massachusetts.  But  there  are  many  other  figures 
that  rise  up  before  me  as  I  recall  those  happy  years  which 
stretch  from  the  closing  gates  of  Harvard  to  the  opening 
doors  of  public  life.  "Old  faces  look  upon  me,  old  forms 
go  trooping  past,"  and  I  wish  I  could  interest  others  in 
them  all  as  they  interested  me,  to  whose  happiness  and  en- 
joyment they  so  largely  contributed.  That  I  cannot  is 
wholly  my  own  fault  and  misfortune.  "Had  I  the  pen  of 
a  G.  P.  R.  James  or  a  Sir  Archibald  Alison/'  to  borrow 
Thackeray's  phrase,  no  doubt  I  could  do  it.  The  character 
and  life  of  any  man,  however  obscure,  is  of  profound  interest 
could  we  but  know  it  aright  and  display  it  to  the  world; 


PUBLIC  MEN  AND  MEN  OF  LETTERS  351 

but  it  requires  the  hand  of  a  master  to  tell  the  story  and 
paint  the  picture.  Without  the  touch  of  the  humorist,  the 
poet,  the  creator,  one's  own  memories  of  those  whom  the 
reader  does  not  know  cannot  be  communicated,  and  the 
effort  fades  into  a  catalogue  unillumined  by  the  light  of 
fancy  or  imagination.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  friends  with 
whom  I  lived  my  daily  life  in  those  years,  whose  thoughts 
and  interests  I  shared,  were  not  only  delightful  companions 
but  clever  men  of  much  accomplishment,  lovers  of  books, 
active  in  mind  and  body,  living  eagerly  the  life  of  their 
time.  I  am  sure  that  I  have  never  met  any  men  who  formed 
a  more  agreeable  society  or  one  better  and  pleasanter  to 
live  with.  I  must  pass  them  over  for  the  most  part  in  silence, 
although  they  formed  a  large  part  of  my  life  and  had  a  deep 
influence  upon  me.  Some  were  the  friends  of  school  and 
college  who  have  found  inadequate  allusion  in  these  pages. 
Some  were  older  men  with  whom  I  came  in  contact,  perhaps 
more  than  some  of  my  contemporaries,  for  I  always  liked  to 
meet  and  know  my  seniors.  But  here  I  must  reluctantly 
pause  where  early  memories  begin  to  merge  in  those  of  a  later 
time.  In  entering  public  life  I  came  upon  a  broader  field  and 
into  relations  with  many  men  of  whom  there  is  no  mention 
made  in  this  volume,  men  who  played  a  large  part  and  had  in 
their  degree  an  influence  upon  the  history  which  they  helped 
to  make.  But  all  that  is  another  story  which  at  some  future 
day,  if  time  and  strength  permit,  I  shall  perhaps  try  to  tell. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbott,  Jacob,  books  about  boys,  68-69 

Abbott,  Judge,  counsel  for  Rice  kid- 
nappers, 78. 

Adams,  Brooks,  274-275;  Bancroft's  al- 
lusion to,  320. 

Adams,  Charles  Francis,  reply  to  Eng- 
lishmen about  the  fighting  of  the  South- 
erners, 127;  directions  to  Dr.  Ellis 
about  his  father,  271;  member  of 
Wednesday  Evening  Club,  273;  re- 
ply about  Federalists,  274;  personal 
appearance,  297;  character  and  qual- 
ities, 298;  place  in  history,  299;  let- 
ters from,  300-301. 

Adams,  Henry,  his  success  as  professor, 
186-187;  goes  with  H.  C.  Lodge  to 
Salerno,  187;  letter  of  advice  from, 
238;  offers  H.  C.  Lodge  assistant 
editorship  of  North  American  Review, 
240-241;  course  in  Anglo-Saxon  law, 
263;  anecdote  of  Sumner,  277;  as  a 
talker,  330. 

Adams,  John  Quincy,  description  of 
visit  to  New  York,  1844,  271-273;  his 
account  of  his  speech  at  dinner,  273. 

Adams,  Miss  Mary,  147. 

Africa  steamship,  138. 

Agassiz,  Louis,  home  at  Nahant,  33; 
early  recollections  of,  54. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  as  a  talker,  330; 
succeeds  Howells  as  editor  of  the  At- 
lantic, 346;  his  office  in  Park  Street, 
347;  his  charm  and  wit  in  conversa- 
tion, 348-349;  his  friendship  with 
Edwin  Booth,  349;  as  a  critic;  his 
character,  349-350. 

Allen,  John,  of  Mississippi,  danger  of  too 
much  jesting  by  public  men,  332. 

Allston,  Washington,  classmate  of  Henry 
Cabot,  43. 

Amadeo,  Prince,  177. 

American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences, 
274. 

Amory,  Francis  I.,  schoolmate  at  Mr. 
Dixwell's,  83. 

Anderson,  Professor,  juggler,  101. 

Andrew,  Governor  John  A.,  in  the  war 
time,  116-117;  account  of  and  im- 
pression made  by,  292. 

Antietam,  visit  with  McKinley  to,  121. 

Appleton,  Thomas  G.,  comment  on 
Sumner 's  anecdote,  281. 

Arch,  Joseph,  visit  to  Sumner,  284-285. 

Argyle,  Duke  of,  description  of,  171-172. 

Arnaux,  Doctor,  French  teacher,  21. 


Arnold,  Matthew,  Aldrich's  dinner  to, 

348. 
Aspinwall,  Colonel,  survivor  of  the  "  War 

of  '12,"  249. 


Balfour,  Arthur  J.,  150;  as  a  talker,  330. 

Baltimore,  attack  on  Massachusetts 
troops  in,  117-118;  reception  of  troops 
in,  1898,  119. 

Bancroft,  George,  house  in  Winthrop 
Place,  18;  early  days  in  Massachu- 
setts politics,  314;  in  Folk's  cabinet, 
315;  his  history  of  the  United  States, 
315-316;  his  old  age  in  Washington, 
316;  letters  from,  317-321;  as  a  rose 
grower,  322. 

Banks,  N.  P.,  recommends  purchase  of 
Hancock  House,  63. 

Barberini,  Palazzo,  home  of  the  Storys, 
162. 

Barrett,  Lawrence,  as  Mark  Antony,  92; 
passenger  on  Africa,  140. 

Bartlett,  General,  123. 

Bartol,  Reverend  Cyrus,  anecdote  of, 
105. 

Beadle,  dime  novels,  103. 

Bedford  Street,  15. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  at  Irving  dinner, 
255. 

Bell  and  Everett,  114. 

Benjamin,  Judah  P.,  Sir  Roundell  Palm- 
er's opinion  of,  256. 

Bigelow,  George  T.,  opinion  in  Rice  case, 
73. 

Bigelow,  Henry  J.,  description  of,  56-57; 
opinion  of  bathing  after  eating,  84. 

Bigelow,  Melville,  251. 

Bigelow,  William  Sturgis,  helps  to  push 
over  statue,  14;  treasure  cave  at 
Nahant,  37;  at  Mrs.  Parkman's,  65; 
account  of  our  education,  83;  good 
shot,  86;  behind  scenes  at  Boston 
Theatre,  97;  seeing  Artemus  Ward, 
101 ;  with  H.  C.  Lodge  in  New  York, 
109;  Porcupine  Club,  274. 

Bismarck,  Prince,  Motley's  account  of, 

307. 

Blake,  Anna  (Mrs.  Henry  Cabot),  de- 
scription of,  7-8. 

Blake,   Charles,   counsel   for  Rice    kid- 
nappers, 78. 
Blake,  Joshua,  house  in  Winthrop  Place, 

18. 
Blake,  Robert,  7. 


355 


356 


INDEX 


Blake,  William,  7. 

Blake  family,  account  of,  7. 

Blitz,  Signer,  34. 

Booth,  Edwin,  as  Cassius,  92;  as  Sir 
Giles  Overreach,  98;  unsurpassed  as 
Hamlet,  191;  breakfast  at  his  house 
in  Boston,  349. 

Boston,  eighteenth  century  atmosphere 
of,  16;  population  of,  185O-1860,  17; 
area  of,  185O-1860,  18;  character  of, 
1850-1860,  19;  nearness  to  country, 
1850-1867,  20;  sleighing  in,  95;  great 
fire  Of,  1872,  241-243. 

Boston  Athenaeum,  275. 

Boston  Museum,  account  of  plays  at, 
92-94. 

Boston  Theatre,  origin  and  description 
of,  95-96;  ball  for  Prince  of  Wales 
at,  100. 

Bourne,  Mrs.  (mother  of  Mrs.  Henry 
Rice),  supplies  money  for  abduction, 
76;  employs  counsel  for  kidnappers, 
78;  furnishes  bail,  79. 

Bradish,  Luther,  273. 

Brattle  Street  Church,  account  of,  105. 

Brattle,  Thomas,  5. 

Brooks,  Preston,  assault  on  Sumner,  45; 
denounced  by  Burlingame,  46;  de- 
clines Burlingame's  challenge,  47. 

Bruce,  Lady  Charlotte,  171. 

Bryce,  James,  150. 

Burgess,  Edward,  schoolmate  at  Mr. 
Dixwell's,  84. 

Burlingame,  Anson,  denounces  Brooks's 
assault  on  Sumner,  46;  accepts 
Brooks's  challenge,  47;  impression 
made  by,  294. 

Butler,  General  B.  F.,  story  of  Choate, 
53. 

Cabot,  George  (uncle  of  H.  C.  Lodge), 
friend  of  Bishop  Fitzpatrick,  56. 

Cabot,  George,  account  of,  8-9;  Mr. 
Morrison's  description  of,  9;  Mr. 
Webster's  opinion  of,  10;  Mr.  Chan- 
ning's  description  of,  10-13;  visited 
by  Washington  at  Beverly,  41;  let- 
ter to  Washington,  42;  memoir  of, 
his  destruction  of  letters,  264. 

Cabot,  Henry,  7 ;  his  pedigree  and  descent 
from  Francis  Higginson,  8;  description 
of,  40-43;  friendship  with  Webster,  43- 
44;  takes  H.  C.  Lodge  to  see  "Julius 
Caesar,"  91;  death  of,  109;  leaves  Whig 
party,  113. 

Cabot,  Mrs.  Henry  (See  Blake,  Anna), 
letter  from  Prescott,  313. 

Cabot,  Samuel,  house  in  Winthrop 
Place,  18. 

Cabot,  Samuel,  schoolmate,  65. 

Cabot,  Stephen,  at  Cooper  Street  Ar- 
mory, 122. 

Cabot  family,  account  of,  8. 

Canning,  George,  149. 

Canrobert,  Marshal,  156. 

Carnegie,  Andrew,  209. 

"  Cataract  of  the  Ganges,"  97. 

Cent-Garde,  156-157. 


Chadwick,  Frank,  schoolmate  at  Mr. 
Sullivan's,  66;  schoolmate  at  Dix- 
well's, 83;  run  down  in  boat  with  H. 
C.  Lodge,  85-86;  good  shot,  86. 

Channing,  William  Ellery,  description  of 
George  Cabot,  10-13. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  8. 

Choate,  Rufus,  anecdote  about,  14; 
house  in  Winthrop  Place,  18;  descrip- 
tion of,  and  anecdotes,  50-53. 

Clark,  Bishop  of  Rhode  Island,  story  of 
Paran  Stevens,  90. 

Coleridge,  Lord,  256-257;  his  advice  to 
Lowell,  340. 

"Colleen  Bawn,"  93. 

Coolidge,  Jefferson,  273. 

Cox,  S.  S.,  danger  of  too  much  jesting  by 
public  men,  331. 

Cunard  Company,  treatment  of  pas- 
sengers, 139. 

Curtis,  George  Ticknor,  Evarts's  story 
of,  256. 

Curtis,  George  William,  describes  Na- 
hant,  32;  asks  H.  C.  Lodge  to  put 
lectures  into  book  for  Harpers,  268. 

Cushing,  Caleb,  at  dinner  at  Sumner's, 
description  of,  282-283. 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  description  of, 
175-176. 

Dalton,  Charles,  273. 

Davenport,  E.  L.,  as  Brutus,  92;  as 
Sir  Giles  Overreach,  98. 

Davis,  Charles  Henry  (Rear  Admiral), 
father  of  Constant  Davis,  135;  men- 
tioned in  letter  from  Story,  165;  serv- 
ices and  scientific  attainments,  194; 
manners,  195;  scholarship,  196;  na- 
ture and  character,  197;  letter  from 
J.  L.  Motley  about,  197-198;  friend- 
ship of  Dr.  Holmes  for  Admiral  and 
Mrs.  Davis,  335. 

Davis,  Charles  Henry  (midshipman), 
159. 

Davis,  Constant,  goes  to  Europe  with  H. 
C.  Lodge,  character  and  description 
of,  135-137. 

Debs,  Eugene,  predictions  as  to  capital- 
ism, 213  ff. 

Denver,  John,  walks  tight-rope  at  Na- 
hant,  33. 

Devens,  Judge  Charles,  examines  H.  C. 
Lodge  for  admission  to  bar,  247. 

Diaz,  Porflrio,  dinner  to,  261-262. 

Dickens,  Charles,  his  readings,  and 
criticism  of,  191-193. 

Dixwell,  Epes  Sargent  (schoolmaster), 
description  of,  80;  last  three  weeks 
at  school  of,  178. 

Dodge,  Miss  Abigail  (Gail  Hamilton), 
attack  on  memoir  of  George  Cabot, 
268-269. 

Dungeon  Rock  (Lynn),  36. 

Elective  system  at  Harvard,  184-187. 

Eliot,  Charles  W.,  becomes  president  of 
Harvard,  180;  letter  to  H.  C.  Lodge 
on  giving  up  lectureship,  267. 


INDEX 


357 


Eliot,  Samuel,  sells  his  house  to  J.  E. 
Lodge,  59;  library  given  to  him  by 
friends,  60-61;  letter  to  J.  E.  Lodge, 
61-62. 

Ellerton,  Elizabeth,  4. 

Ellerton,  John  Lodge,  proposes  change 
of  name  to  H.  C.  Lodge,  4;  descrip- 
tion of,  151;  reconciliation  with 
brother,  152. 

Ellerton  family,  account  of,  4. 

Ellis,  Dr.  George,  knowledge  of  local  his- 
tory, 270;  anecdote  of  Webster,  270- 
271 ;  description  of  visit  to  New  York 
with  John  Quincy  Adams,  271-273. 

Ellsworth,  Colonel,  shooting  of,  119-120. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  verses  about 
Nahant,  32;  remark  about  Samuel 
Hoar,  248;  appearance,  328;  last 
time  at  Historical  Society,  328-329; 
at  dinner  in  1874,  anecdote  of,  329. 

Endicott,  William  C.,  Jr.,  finds  letter  of 
George  Cabot,  41. 

Endicott,  Judge  William  C.,  251. 

England,  policy  toward  the  United 
States,  148-150. 

"Essex  Junior,"  274. 

Essex  Street,  15. 

Eugenie,  Empress,  156. 

Evarts,  William  M.,  personal  appear- 
ance, 254;  anecdote  of  at  election,  255; 
at  Irving  dinner,  255;  at  dinner  of  H. 
C.  Lodge  in  Boston,  256;  Washington 
throwing  dollar  across  the  Rappahan- 
nock,  256-257;  State  Department 
anecdotes  of,  257;  reply  to  Mr.  Hoar, 
character  and  ability,  258;  as  a 
talker,  330. 

Everett,  Edward,  speech  about  Monitor 
and  Merrimac,  122. 

Fette,  schoolmaster  at  Nahant,  73-76. 

Fitzpatrick,  Bishop  John,  56. 

Florence,  William,  at  Irving  dinner,  255. 

Forney,  John  W.,  flattery  of  Sumner,  282. 

Forrest,  Edwin,  as  Metamora,  100;  as 
Richelieu  and  Hamlet,  190-191. 

France  in  1866,  154;  the  army,  157-158. 

Freeman,  Edward,  dinner  to,  251;  de- 
scription of,  252. 

Gambetta,  Sumner's  anecdote  of,  281. 

Gladstone,  William  E.,  148. 

Gosse,  Edmund,  in  Boston  and  London, 
349. 

Granary  Burying  Ground,  description 
of,  347. 

Grant,  Mrs.  Patrick,  72. 

Gray,  Horace,  anecdote  of  Governor 
Andrew,  116-117;  kindness  to  and 
talks  with  H.  C.  Lodge,  250-251 ;  Jus- 
tice of  United  States  Supreme  Court, 
253;  character  and  appearance  on 
bench,  253-254. 

Gray,  John  C.,  250. 

Gray,  Russell,  treasure-seeking,  38; 
schoolmate  at  Mr.  Sullivan's,  64;  Por- 
cupine Club  and  Boston  Athenaeum, 
274-275. 


Greene,  Doctor  Samuel,  270. 
Grey,  Sir  Edward,  150. 
Guild,  Mrs.  S.  E.,  72. 

Hackett,  J.  H.,  as  Falstaff,  99. 

Hamley,  General,  147-148. 

Hancock  House,  account  of,  63. 

Harcourt,  Lady,  named  for  aunt  of  H. 
C.  Lodge,  303;  at  Nahant,  308. 

Harcourt,  Louis,  150. 

Harrison,  President,  appoints  Allen  Rice 
as  minister  to  Russia,  79. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  303. 

Hay,  John,  as  a  talker,  330. 

Healey,  Father,  56. 

"Herrmann,"  juggler,  101. 

Higginson,  Francis,  8;   his  character,  13. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth,  descrip- 
tion of  cosmopolitanism,  205;  remarks 
on  Gail  Hamilton's  criticism,  269. 

Hill,  Thomas,  president  of  Harvard,  180. 

Hoar,  Judge  Ebenezer  Rockwood,  de- 
scription and  anecdotes  of,  247-250; 
his  remarks  on  funeral  of  Wendell 
Phillips,  294. 

Hoar,  George  F.,  story  as  to  Francis 
Higginson,  8;  Evarts's  reply  to,  258. 

Hoar,  Leonard  (president  of  Harvard), 
248. 

Hoar,  Samuel  (father  of  Ebenezer  R. 
Hoar),  Emerson's  remark  about,  248. 

Holmes,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell,  describes 
dynamometer,  329;  as  a  talker,  330- 
331 ;  effect  of  his  reputation  as  humor- 
ist and  wit,  331-332;  a  great  writer, 
332-333;  his  personal  appearance, 
333;  at  the  Atlantic  dinner,  333-334; 
anecdotes  of  him  at  Nahant,  335; 
character  of  the  vanity  with  which  he 
was  charged,  336;  letters  from,  337; 
his  last  days,  338. 

Holmes,  Mrs.  Oliver  Wendell,  cousin  of 
Mrs.  J.  E.  Lodge,  333. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  (Justice),  his 
conversation  with  General  Hamley, 
147-148;  anecdote  of,  179. 

Hosmer,  Miss  Harriet,  171. 

Howe,  Dr.  G.  S.,  appearance  of  and  im- 
pression made  by,  293. 

Howells,  William  D.,  his  book,  "A  Boy's 
Town,"  68;  editor  of  Atlantic  Monthly, 
344;  description  of,  344-345;  summer 
at  Nahant,  346;  kindness  of,  346. 

Hubbard,  Frank,  schoolmate  at  Mr. 
Sullivan's,  66;  with  H.  C.  Lodge  in 
Canada  and  the  Adirondacks,  179. 

Irving,  Henry,  dinner  in  New  York  to,  255. 

Jackson,  negro  servant  of  Mr.  Rice,  73. 

Jackson,  Frank,  schoolmate  at  Mr.  Sul- 
livan's, 66. 

James,  George  Abbot  (brother-in-law  of 
H.  C.  Lodge),  135. 

"Jeanie  Deans,"  93. 

Jefferson,  Joseph,  opinion  of  acoustics  at 
Boston  Theatre,  96. 


358 


INDEX 


Kean,  Charles,  as  an  actor,  191. 

Kean,  Mrs.  (Ellen  Tree),  as  an  actress, 
191. 

Kemble,  Mrs.  Fanny,  reads  to  children 
at  Mrs.  Parkman's,  22;  letter  to 
Henry  Greville  about  Nahant,  33; 
description  of,  in  public  reading,  191. 

Kenilworth,  143. 

Kidd,  Captain,  belief  in  his  buried  treas- 
ure, 36-37. 

Kirkland,  Elizabeth  Cabot,  description 
of,  44-45. 

Kirkland,  John  Thornton,  44. 

Lamar,  L.  Q.  C.,  eulogy  of  Sumner, 
48. 

Lang,  Andrew,  opinion  of  Whittier,  343. 

Langdell,  Professor  C.  C.,  his  work  in  the 
Harvard  Law  School,  246. 

Langdon,  John,  5. 

Langdon,  Mary  (Mrs.  Giles  Lodge),  5; 
portrait  of,  7. 

Langdon,  Samuel,  president  of  Harvard 
College,  5. 

Langdon  family,  account  of,  5. 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  150. 

Laughlin,  J.  Lawrence,  263. 

Lawrence,  Massachusetts,  trial  of  Rice 
kidnappers  at,  77-78. 

Lawrence,  William  (Bishop),  schoolmate 
at  Mr.  Dixwell's,  84. 

Leamington,  142-143. 

Lee,  Harry,  schoolmate,  65. 

Lee,  Colonel  Henry,  helps  H.  C.  Lodge 
on  memoir  of  George  Cabot,  265;  de- 
scription and  character  of,  266-267. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  assassination  of,  129; 
his  place  in  history,  190;  his  opinions 
as  to  property,  215-216. 

Lind,  Jenny,  153. 

Locker,  Frederick,  171. 

Lodge,  Adam,  description  of,  152. 

Lodge,  Anna  Cabot  (Mrs.  J.  E.  Lodge), 
7;  character,  and  love  of  reading,  39; 
friend  of  William  Story,  162;  Story's 
feeling  about,  165;  Wendell  Phillips's 
opinion  of,  285;  letters  from  Bancroft 
to,  317-321;  cousin  of  Mrs.  O.  W. 
Holmes,  333. 

Lodge,  Elizabeth  Cabot  (Mrs.  James), 
40. 

Lodge,  Francis,  4. 

Lodge,  Giles,  birth,  4;  comes  to  West 
Indies,  4;  escapes  from  Santo  Do- 
mingo, 4-5;  settles  in  Boston  and  mar- 
ries, 5;  death,  5;  appearance  and  char- 
acter, 5-6 ;  his  cane  and  book,  6-7. 

Lodge,  Henry  Cabot,  birth  and  birth- 
place, 14;  garden,  15;  events  at  period 
of  birth,  16;  playing  in  gardens  and 
yards,  sports  on  the  common,  19;  sent 
to  Mrs.  Parkman's  school,  20;  studies 
at  first  school,  21;  hears  Mrs.  Kemble 
read,  22;  fondness  for  sea,  22;  his 
father's  counting-room  and  ships,  22— 
23;  getting  molasses  from  casks,  24- 
25;  stamp-collecting,  25-26;  at  the 
shipyard  in  Medford,  26;  companion- 


ship of  his  father,  27-32;  books  read 
as  a  boy,  29-32;  love  of  the  sea  at 
Nahant,  35;  hunting  for  treasure,  36; 
treasure-cave  at  Nahant,  37 ;  treasure- 
seeking  in  Boston,  38;  earliest  recol- 
lections of  Sumner,  45 ;  sees  Sumner  on 
his  return  to  Boston  after  Brooks' s 
assault,  48-50;  recollections  of  Rufus 
Choate,  50-53;  recollections  of  J.  L. 
Motley,  53-54;  recollections  of  Long- 
fellow, 54 ;  recollections  of  Agassiz,  54 ; 
recollections  of  Benjamin  Peirce,  55; 
recollections  of  Bishop  Fitzpatrick,  56; 
recollections  of  Henry  Bigelow,  56-57; 
heroes  of  boyhood  and  the  Heenan- 
Sayers  fight,  58;  leaves  Winthrop 
Place  for  31  Beacon  Street,  59;  de- 
scription of  Beacon  Street  quarter  and 
31  Beacon  Street,  62;  the  Hancock 
House,  63;  leaves  Mrs.  Parkman's 
school  and  goes  to  that  of  Mr.  Sulli- 
van, 64;  companions  at  Mrs.  Park- 
man's  school,  65;  companions  at  Mr. 
Sullivan's  school,  66;  boys  and  boy 
nature,  67-72;  friendship  with  Allen 
Rice,  72;  witnesses  abduction  of 
Allen  Rice,  73-74;  identifies  one  of 
the  kidnappers  at  jail,  75-76;  fails  to 
identify  third  man,  76;  witness  before 
Grand  Jury,  77;  witness  at  Lawrence, 
77-78;  kindness  of  Judge  Lord  to,  78; 
friendship  with  Allen  Rice  in  later 
years,  79;  leaves  Mr.  Sullivan's  and 
goes  to  Mr.  Dixwell's  school,  81 ;  con- 
duct and  studies  there,  82-83;  edu- 
cation in  other  directions,  83-84; 
swimming,  84-85;  sailing  and  run 
down  by  the  Idler,  85-86 ;  bird-nesting 
and  shooting,  86;  other  sports,  86-87; 
learning  to  ride  and  first  horse,  87-88; 
at  Newport,  87-88;  first  time  at  thea- 
tre, 90;  the  Ravels,  91;  "Julius 
Caesar,"  91;  sees  Davenport,  Booth, 
Barrett,  and  McCullough  in  "Julius 
Caesar,"  92;  goes  to  Boston  Museum, 
93;  plays  "Colleen  Bawn"  in  play- 
room, 93 ;  sale  of  Boston  Museum  prop- 
erties, 94;  behind  scenes  at  Boston 
Theatre,  97;  plays  and  actors  there, 
97-100;  sees  jugglers  and  Artemus 
Ward,  100;  love  of  reading,  102-104; 
reading  in  church,  104-106;  first  visit 
to  New  York  theatres,  109-110;  ad- 
venture at  Trenton  Falls,  109; 
Niagara,  110;  earliest  impressions  of 
politics,  113;  campaign  of  1860, 
113-115;  firing  on  Sumter,  115;  recol- 
lections of  Governor  Andrew,  116;  the 
attack  on  the  troops  in  Baltimore,  II7- 
118;  thirty-seven  years  later,  118-119; 
the  shooting  of  Ellsworth,  119;  the  first 
Bull  Run,  Island  Number  10,  Donelson, 
and  Port  Royal,  120;  visit  to  Antietam 
with  McKinley,  121 ;  the  Monitor  and 
Merrimac  and  the  representation  of 
their  fight  in  Boston,  121;  Mr.  Ever- 
ett's speech,  122;  Vicksburg,  Gettys- 
burg, Sherman,  Sheridan,  and  the  fall 


INDEX 


359 


of  Richmond,  122;  effect  of  war  on 
mind  of,  123-125;  effect  of  war  on 
boys  of  that  period,  125;  opinions  and 
convictions  left  by  war,  126;  hears  of 
Lincoln's  assassination,  129;  feeling 
toward  Southern  men  and  Northern 
sympathizers,  130-131;  hostility  to- 
ward England,  131-132;  one  side 
right  in  the  war,  the  other  wrong,  133- 
134;  goes  to  Europe,  1866-1867,  135; 
the  voyage,  138-139 ;  arrival  at  Liver- 
pool, 141;  sights  in  Liverpool,  142; 
Leamington,  142-143;  Warwick  and 
Stratford,  143;  goes  to  London,  144; 
goes  to  Mount  Felix,  145 ;  occupations 
at  Mount  Felix,  146;  account  of 
General  Hamley,  147-148;  feeling 
about  English  scenery,  150-151;  goes 
to  opera  and  theatre,  and  hears  Jenny 
Lind  in  London,  153;  on  the  Conti- 
nent, Switzerland  and  Paris,  154; 
sees  sights  in  Paris,  155;  grand  review, 
155-156;  sees  Emperor  and  Empress, 
156;  sees  Offenbach's  operas,  158; 
takes  French  lessons,  160;  journey  to 
Rome,  161;  winter  in  Rome,  162; 
first  hunt  in  Rome,  172-174;  incidents 
of  hunting,  174-175;  meeting  with 
Charlotte  Cushman,  175-176;  the 
last  run,  lames  horse,  176-177;  to 
Naples  and  Venice,  177;  to  Vienna, 
178;  arrival  at  home,  178;  examina- 
tions for  and  entrance  to  Harvard, 
178-179;  fishing  and  shooting  in 
Canada  and  the  Adirondacks,  179; 
Harvard  at  time  of  entrance,  180-181 ; 
account  of  "mock  parts,"  181-182; 
reads  them,  182;  the  last  to  do  so,  183; 
effect  of  elective  system,  184-187; 
enjoyment  of  Harvard,  187;  athletics, 
188;  college  theatricals,  188-189; 
goes  on  as  "supe"  at  theatres,  anec- 
dote, 189-190;  theatre-going  while  at 
college,  190-191;  hears  Mrs.  Kemble 
read,  191;  and  Dickens,  191-193;  re- 
sult of  going  to  Harvard,  193 ;  becomes 
engaged,  194;  marries  and  sails  for 
Europe,  199;  retrospect  and  contrast, 
200;  changes  in  communication  and 
transportation,  201;  changes  in  en- 
vironment, 202;  society  of  his  youth, 
203;  prevalence  of  English  habits, 
203-205;  effect  of  Civil  War  and  im- 
migration, 205-206;  development  of 
great  wealth,  206-208;  fortunes  in  his 
youth  and  old  families,  208;  the  mod- 
ern American  plutocrat,  208-210;  law- 
lessness of  modern  plutocrat,  211; 
effect  of  wealth  on  politics,  212;  change 
of  popular  view  as  to  property  in  the 
United  States,  213-216;  alterations 
in  society,  216;  character  of  conversa- 
tion, 216-217;  society  in  Boston  dur- 
ing youth  of,  217-218;  restlessness  of 
society  to-day,  218-219;  its  effect  on 
style,  219-220;  on  sculpture,  220;  on 
painting,  220-221;  loss  of  form,  221- 
222;  incoherence  of  thought,  222-223; 


meaning  of  these  changes,  224;  in 
Europe  again,  225;  sees  Passion  play, 
226;  auction  of  imperial  effects,  228; 
description  of  Paris  in  1871,  229-231; 
goes  to  Germany  and  Italy,  231-232; 
friendship  with  Simpson,  232-233; 
his  effect  upon,  234-236;  goes  to  Paris 
and  The  Hague,  237;  in  England  and 
the  Low  Countries,  237-238;  asks  ad- 
vice of  Henry  Adams,  238;  works  at 
early  Germanic  law,  239;  at  Norfolk, 
Virginia,  240;  offered  assistant  editor- 
ship of  the  North  American  Review, 
240-241 ;  description  of  the  Boston  fire, 
241-242;  visits  among  the  poor,  242- 
243;  work  on  North  American  Review, 
245;  first  articles  in  North  American 
Review,  245;  enters  law  school,  245- 
246;  examined  for  the  bar,  247; 
friendship  with  Judge  Gray,  250-254; 
friendship  with  and  anecdotes  of 
Evarts,  254-258;  friendship  with  and 
account  of  Francis  E.  Parker,  259-262; 
essay  on  Anglo-Saxon  law  and  degree 
of  Ph.D.,  263-264;  begins  memoir  of 
George  Cabot,  264;  friendship  with 
and  account  of  Henry  Lee,  265-267; 
lectures  on  American  history  at  Har- 
vard, and  letter  from  President  Eliot, 
267;  lectures  at  Lowell  Institute  and 
publication  of  lectures  as  book,  268; 
writes  for  Nation  and  Atlantic  Monthly, 
261;  elected  to  Massachusetts  His- 
torical Society,  270 ;  elected  to  Wednes- 
day Evening  Club,  273;  elected  to 
American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sci- 
ences, 274;  account  of  Porcupine  Club 
and  its  members,  274-275;  friendship 
with  and  account  of  Sumner,  276; 
meets  Henry  Wilson,  account  of  him, 
291;  recollections  of  Governor  An- 
drew, 292-293;  recollections  of  and 
account  of  Wendell  Phillips,  294-297; 
recollections  of  Charles  Francis  Adams, 
297-301;  recollections  of  Robert  C. 
Winthrop,  301-303;  recollections  of 
Mr.  Prescott,  303 ;  relations  of  to  Mr. 
Bancroft,  314;  first  meeting  with  Mr. 
Bancroft,  315;  friendship  with  him  in 
his  last  years,  316;  recollections  of 
Dr.  Palfrey,  321 ;  recollections  and  ac- 
count of  Francis  Parkman,  322-325; 
earliest  recollections  of  Longfellow, 
325;  later  recollections,  326;  descrip- 
tion of  Longfellow,  327-328;  recol- 
lections of  Emerson,  328-329;  recollec- 
tions of  Dr.  Holmes  as  a  talker,  330;  his 
love  of  jokes  and  his  serious  side,  331- 
332;  his  greatness  as  a  writer,  332-333; 
description  of  Dr.  Holmes,  333;  recol- 
lections of  him  at  the  Atlantic  din- 
ner and  the  Historical  Society,  334; 
anecdotes  of  him  at  Nahant,  335;  his 
pleasure  in  his  own  success,  336;  let- 
ters from  Dr.  Holmes,  337;  recollec- 
tions of  Lowell  at  Cambridge,  338; 
anecdotes  of  Lowell,  339;  friendship 
with  him  after  his  return  from  England, 


360 


INDEX 


340;  his  speeches  and  his  writings,  341 ; 
friendship  with  and  account  of  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich,  346-350;  meets  Edwin 
Booth,  349;  meets  Edmund  Gosse, 
349. 

Lodge,  John  Ellerton,  merchant  of  Bos- 
ton, 3;  counting-room  and  ships,  22- 
23;  description  of,  27;  his  courage,  27; 
his  generosity,  28;  his  companionship, 
28-29 ;  his  love  of  poetry  and  reading, 
29-31;  passport,  34;  his  visits  to 
England,  35;  generosity  to  orphan 
asylum,  56;  buys  31  Beacon  Street, 
59;  raises  fund  to  buy  Mr.  Eliot's 
library,  60;  letter  to  Mr.  Eliot,  62; 
Mr.  Prescott's  allusion  to,  62;  gives 
watch  to  H.  C.  Lodge,  79;  buys  hotel 
place  at  Nahant,  90;  president  of 
board  of  directors  of  Boston  Theatre, 
96-97;  death  of,  106;  leaves  Whigs 
and  supports  Fremont,  113;  desire 
to  go  to  war,  124;  letter  from  Ban- 
croft, 319. 

Lodge,  Matthew,  4. 

Lodge,  Thomas,  archdeacon,  4. 

Lodge,  Thomas,  poet,  4. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wads  worth,  poems 
about  Nahant,  32;  early  recollections 
of,  54;  friendship  for  Sumner,  277- 
326;  anecdote  of  Sumner,  278;  at 
Nahant,  325;  attractiveness  in  soci- 
ety, 326;  his  criticism  of  Schurz's  ad- 
dress, 326-327;  personal  appearance, 
327;  sends  H.  C.  Lodge  poem  for 
the  International  Review,  328;  Dr. 
Holmes's  address  on,  334. 

Lord,  Judge  Otis,  78. 

"Lost  Cause,"  sympathy  with,  129. 

Lothrop,  Dr.  S.  K.,  273. 

Lowell,  Augustus,  273. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  his  course  in  Eng- 
lish literature  at  Harvard,  186;  as  a 
talker,  330;  at  Cambridge,  338 ;  hatred 
of  Jews  and  anecdote  of,  339;  bril- 
liancy as  a  speaker,  340-341. 

Lowell,  Judge  John,  251-252. 

Lyman,  George,  schoolmate  at  Mr.  Sul- 
livan's, 66. 

Nahant,  drives  to,  when  a  boy,  26-27; 
description  of,  32;  accounts  of,  in 
prose  and  verse,  32;  account  of  hotel 
at,  33;  burning  of  hotel  at,  89. 

Napier,  Lady,  at  Nahant,  34. 

Napier,  Lord,  at  Nahant,  34. 

Napoleon,  Louis,  155;  description  of, 
156-157. 

Newport,  Rhode  Island,  description  of. 


New  South  Church,  15. 

Nickerson,  kidnapper  of  Allen  Rice,  74; 

identified  at  jail,  76;   convicted,  79. 
North  American   Review,   editorship   of, 

240-241;    work  on,  244-245. 

Oberammergau,  Passion  play  at,  226. 
Offenbach  operas,  158-159. 


Otis  Place,  14. 

Otis,  William,  advice  to  jump  overboard, 
85-86. 


Palfrey,  Dr.  John  G.,  recollections  of, 
321. 

Palmer,  Sir  Roundell,  opinion  of  Ben- 
jamin, 256. 

Paris  in  1866,  155  ff.;  after  the  war,  227; 
the  Commune,  227-229;  contemporary 
description  of,  229-231. 

Parker,  Francis  E.,  description  of,  259; 
wit,  260;  in  State  Senate,  260-261; 
personal  appearance  of,  261 ;  at  dinner 
to  Diaz,  262;  anecdote  of  waiter,  262. 

Parkman,  Mrs.,  her  school,  20;  descrip- 
tion of,  20-21. 

Parkman,  Francis,  dinner  at  Judge 
Gray's,  251;  physical  obstacles  to  his 
work,  322;  standing  of  his  histories, 
323;  early  recollections  of,  323;  in 
later  years,  323-324;  character  and 
ability,  325. 

Parkman,  Henry,  22;   schoolmate,  65. 

Paul,  Herbert,  consolidation  of  the 
United  States,  132. 

Peirce,  Benjamin,  description  of,  55;  Mr. 
Motley's  message  to,  311. 

Peirce,  Benjamin,  Jr.,  in  Paris,  159;  de- 
scription of,  160. 

Pennoyer,  William,  Lowell's  allusion  to, 
341. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  house  in  Essex  Street, 
15;  feeling  toward  Sumner  and  letters 
about  him,  284-285;  character  in 
politics,  294;  looks  and  appearance, 
295;  his  attractive  manner,  296;  his 
advice  about  public  speaking,  297. 

Photius,  H.  C.  Lodge  asks  Lowell  and 
Holmes  about,  339-340. 

"Pip,"  first  horse  of  H.  C.  Lodge,  88-89. 

Pollock,  Sir  Frederick,  sends  book  to  H. 
C.  Lodge,  263. 

Porcupine  Club,  274. 

Prescott,  William  H.,  home  at  Nahant, 
33;  allusion  to  J.  E.  Lodge,  62;  in- 
herited recollections  of,  312-313;  let- 
ter to  Mrs.  Henry  Cabot,  313. 

Prince  of  Wales,  ball  for,  100. 


Ravels,  the,  account  of,  91. 

Reed,  Thomas  Brackett,  anecdote  of  ad- 
mission to  the  bar,  247;  as  a  talker, 
330. 

Republican  torchlight  procession,  114. 

Rhodes,  James  Ford,  opinion  of  Park- 
man's  work,  322. 

Rice,  Charles  Allen  Thorndike,  72;  cus- 
tody awarded  to  father,  73;  abducted 
from  school,  74;  carried  by  mother  to 
England,  75;  later  life  and  death,  79- 
80. 

Rice,  Henry,  father  of  Allen  Rice,  72; 
divorce,  73;  desires  H.  C.  Lodge  as 
witness,  75;  gives  ring  to  H.  C.  Lodge, 
79. 


INDEX 


361 


Bice,  Mrs.  Henry,  divorce,  73;  takes 
Allen  Rice  to  England,  75;  probably 
one  of  the  kidnappers,  77. 

Rodin,  Auguste,  220. 

Ropes,  John  C.,  story  of  generosity  of 
J.  E.  Lodge,  28. 

Ropes  and  Gray,  H.  C.  Lodge  studies 
in  office  of,  246. 

Rosebery,  Lord,  150;  as  a  talker,  330. 

Round  Hill,  Northampton,  Massa- 
chusetts, Bancroft's  school  at,  314. 

Rubio,  Senator,  at  Diaz  dinner,  262. 

Russell,  George,  203  and  216. 

Russell,  Lord  John,  148. 

Saint  Helier,  Lady,  her  impression  of 
Mr.  Motley,  306. 

Salerno,  187. 

Santo  Domingo,  4. 

Sargent,  Horace,  schoolmate  at  Mr.  Sul- 
livan's, 66. 

Sargent,  Lucius  Manlius,  schoolmate  at 
Mr.  Sullivan's,  66;  account  of,  274- 
275. 

Saville,  Lady  Theresa  (wife  of  Mr. 
Ellerton),  152. 

Schneider,  Hortense,  in  Offenbach's  op- 
eras, 158. 

"  School  Days  at  Rugby,"  criticism  of,  69. 

Schurz,  Carl,  Judge  Gray's  feeling  about, 
251;  story  of  Evarts,  257;  his  Boston 
address  criticised  by  Longfellow,  326- 
327. 

Schuyler,  General  Philip,  173. 

Shaw,  George  Bernard,  209. 

Shaw,  Colonel  Robert  Gould,  123. 

"Short  History  of  the  Colonies,"  268. 

Simpson,  Michael  Henry,  at  Harvard, 
232;  with  H.  C.  Lodge  in  Rome,  233; 
his  beliefs  and  plans,  235-236;  his 
death,  237. 

Smith,  kidnapper  of  Allen  Rice,  74; 
identifled  at  jail,  76;  convicted,  79. 

Sothern,  in  "Lord  Dundreary,"  153. 

Stephen,  Mrs.  Leslie,  226. 

Stevens,  Paran,  starts  hotel  at  Nahant, 
33;  failure  of  hotel,  89-90. 

Stockton,  Howard,  Porcupine  Club  and 
Boston  Athenaeum,  274-275. 

Story,  William  W.,  162;  as  sculptor  and 
writer,  163;  fondness  for  Italy,  anec- 
dote, 164;  at  Nahant,  165;  letters 
from,  165-171;  in  1871,  231. 

Story,  Mrs.,  226. 

Stratford,  143. 

Stuart,  Gilbert,  anecdote  of,  296. 

Sturgis,  Henry,  146. 

Sturgis,  Howard,  146. 

Sturgis,  Julian,  146. 

Sturgis.  May,  146. 

Sturgis,  Russell,  account  of,  145;  in 
1871,  225. 

Sturgis,  Mrs.  Russell,  account  of,  144  and 
146. 

Sullivan,  Thomas  Russell,  Sr.,  his 
school,  64. 

Sullivan,  Thomas  Russell,  Jr.,  descrip- 
tion of  wharves  and  ships,  24;  treas- 


ure-seeking, 38;  schoolmate  at  Mr. 
Sullivan's,  66;  as  Colleen  Bawn  in 
play-room,  93. 

Summer  Street,  14-15;  residents  in, 
18. 

Sumner,  Charles,  habit  of  coming  to 
Nahant,  33;  earliest  recollections  of, 
45;  Brooks's  attack  upon,  45-46; 
generosity  toward  South  and  eulogy 
by  Lamar,  48;  scene  on  return  to 
Boston  after  assault,  49;  physical 
effects  of  assault,  50;  letter  on  death 
of  J.  E.  Lodge,  107;  friendship  with 
H.  C.  Lodge's  family,  276;  at  Nahant 
every  summer  and  note  to  H.  C.  Lodge, 
277;  personal  appearance  and  learn- 
ing, 278;  speeches  and  conversation, 
279;  attack  on  Grant,  280;  lack  of 
humor,  280-281;  his  reply  to  Gam- 
betta,  281;  his  announcement  to 
Motley  of  his  appointment,  282;  his 
vanity,  282-285;  his  essential  great- 
ness, 285;  his  real  nature,  286;  public 
service  and  course  in  direct  claims,  287; 
policy  as  to  Canada  and  Cuba,  288; 
policy  as  to  the  South,  288-289;  his 
place  in  history,  289-290;  his  lov- 
ableness,  loneliness,  courage,  290; 
Longfellow's  friendship  for,  326. 

Sumner,  George,  290. 

Swettenham  (Governor  of  Jamaica), 
150. 

Swift,  Henry,  writes  burlesque  with  H. 
C.  Lodge,  189. 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  anecdote  of,  336. 
Thackeray,  Miss,  226. 
Thuolt,  Mr.,  teacher  of  riding,  87. 
Ticknor,  George,  his  opinions  of  Quincy 

and  Phillips,  295;  description  of,  295- 

296. 

"Tippoo  Sahib,"  97. 
Titiens,  as  Lucrezia  Borgia,  153. 


Wadsworth,  Herbert,  schoolmate,  65. 

Wadsworth,  Livingston,  schoolmate,  65. 

Walley,  John,  soldier  and  judge,  5;  an- 
cestor of  Wendell  Phillips,  296. 

Walley,  Mary,  5. 

Walley,  Thomas,  5. 

Ward,  Artemus,  account  of,  101. 

Warren,  William,  account  of,  92. 

Warwick,  143. 

Washington,  George,  visit  to  George 
Cabot  at  Beverly,  41-42;  anecdotes 
of,  in  letter  from  Story,  169-171; 
throwing  dollar,  256-257. 

Webster,  Daniel,  opinion  of  George 
Cabot,  10;  house  in  Summer  Street, 
18;  friendship  for  Henry  Cabot  and 
letter  about  trout,  43-44 ;  anecdote  of, 
by  Dr.  Ellis,  270-271;  feeling  of 
Robert  C.  Winthrop  toward,  302. 

Wednesday  Evening  Club,  273. 

West,  Sir  Algernon,  203  and  216. 

Wheatleigh,  William,  brings  out  "  Henry 
IV,"  99. 


362  INDEX 

White,  Edward  Douglas  (Chief  Justice),  Wilson,  Henry,  account  of  and  impression 

34.  made  by,  291. 

White  (Governor  of  Louisiana),  34.  Winthrop,  Robert  C.,  president  of  Mas- 

Whittier,  Charles,  dinner  to  Diaz,  261-  sachusetts     Historical     Society,     270; 

262.  Wednesday  Evening  Club,    273;    ap- 

Whittier,  John  G.,  describes  Nahant,  32;  pearance,     301;      political     character, 

description   of,    looks   and   character,  302-303. 

342;    character  of  his  poetry  and  let-  Winthrop    Place,     14;      houses    in,    18; 

ter  from,  343-344.  residents  in,  18. 

Willis,  N.  P.,  describes  Nahant,  32.  Wolcott.  Huntington,  death  of,  124. 


V 


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